


White Rabbit, 1967

by AmeliaAsherWrites, onceuponanovel



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Military, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Cursed Jefferson, Cursed Storybrooke, Eventual Gremma, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Grace wakes first, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, Korean War, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Nurses, References to Canon, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-12 23:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14737709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmeliaAsherWrites/pseuds/AmeliaAsherWrites, https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponanovel/pseuds/onceuponanovel
Summary: A Historical AU in the Vietnam Era, 1967. If Cursed Storybrooke took place in the 1960s where Jefferson and Grace think they lost her mother, Priscilla shortly after the Korean War.Jefferson is a US Marine living in Storybrooke, Maine with his teenage daughter Grace in 1967. He has received a telegram that he will be called back into service as the Marines desperately need helicopter pilots in Vietnam. He thought he had put all of that behind himself before Grace was born.Jefferson tells Grace the story of how he and her mother met in Korea over a decade before- she an Army nurse and he a Marine Search and Rescue pilot - and how they fell in love, then lost her. Meanwhile, he keeps the secret that within the week he is going to have to leave her to return to war.Events begin to unravel which may reveal that none of which they think was real actually was.





	1. Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> _This has been written in a role play thread between two authors. We have decided to share it here. It can be viewed in the third-person omniscient point of view or written in turns between two authors._
> 
> _The title of this works is in reference to the song_ White Rabbit _by_ Jefferson Airplane _which is where Grace and Jefferson were given their names by the creators of Once Upon a Time. Speaking of names, you'll notice the surname Buchanan which is a nod to Sebastian Stan's James Buchanan Barnes. Jefferson never had a last name other than the profession of Hatter and he needed something a little more 'realistic' for this story._
> 
> _There are some flashbacks to the Korean War. We have done some research on this time frame and tried to be accurate as Google allows, but this is fanfic, so expect plenty of inaccuracies. Both of us have an appreciation and respect for the men and women of the military and veterans and have tried to do them justice here, but do not claim to be experts whatsoever._
> 
> _If you would like to offer any tips, or just general comments of appreciation, we'd love to read them!_
> 
>   _Enjoy._

  


The second the bell chimes from the alarm clock on her nightstand, Grace quickly silences it with a whack of her hand. Palm resting over the clock, she grabs it up and makes sure to turn it off as to not risk the clanking should wake Dad. The light of her bright purple curtains as the day is just beginning, casts a iridescent shadow of her furniture and posters. Seeing everything in her favorite hue brings a smile to her lips.

Wanting to wake up earlier than usual, she tosses the clock on the bed and pushes herself up and on her sock covered feet shuffling towards the door. Her hand snatches up her fluffy white robe and on her way out into the upstairs hall, she slips in one arm after another till she’s cloaked and making way down the stairs. She loves this robe no matter how old it is now, but the fabric reminds her of a fluffy bunny.

Grace stifles a yawn, covering her hand over her mouth as she enters the kitchen. Flipping on the light switch even if the sun’s beginning to rise, it’s out of habit. She moves around the breakfast table and around the island counter to where the coffee maker resides against the wall. She quirks a brow at the appliance. It couldn’t be that difficult to make.

Quietly as she possible can, Grace does her best to mimic what she’s seen Dad do many times before. It goes together nicely and she’s confident that she’s a success till she presses the button to start and it emits an awful noise. “Crap,” she almost shouts forgetting she’s up earlier than usual. Quick to stop the issue she grabs the cord, pulling out of the socket. Not exactly fixing the problem, but at least taming it temporarily.

Had she killed the coffee maker in her attempt to do something for Dad for once? Stepping away from it. At least there was no mess. So hopefully no harm done, she thinks as she moves to the doorway, resting on the frame. She cringes as she calls for him, “Dad!” Not a great way to start a day. 

-

The sound of a door opening draws Jefferson’s attention away from the newspaper in his hands. The soft light pouring from the green, domed lamp provides ample light in the otherwise dark room. It’s still early morning. The sun’s rays had not reached over the treeline beyond the window in front of him. It’s six in the morning. Grace should still be asleep. Though his bedroom door is shut, he glances over his shoulder anyway to listen. Her footsteps are so quiet, he nearly misses hearing them. She’s sneaking to the kitchen, he assumes with a trace of a smile.

Still gripping the newspaper, he shakes it out enough to provide enough support for the paper to hold upright for the light to shine upon the black and white, very grainy image of a helicopter, an HH-1K Iroquois search and rescue, to be exact. SAR. His old MOS. He’d thank his involvement in Korea because he never would have met his redheaded beauty of a wife, Priscilla, a nurse, nor would he have Grace had he not been in search and rescue.

Though he had lied about his age at 17 so he could join the Marines and serve, he had no regrets. Grace is now everything he has left. Nevermind the estates he has left over from his parents’ deaths. That was so long ago, and he had been a reckless enough youth, getting the hell out of America for the sake of worldly adventure was all he needed at the time. And the Korean War just gearing up and the call for pilots was all the excuse he needed to go.

Now, all he needs is Grace. And the image in the news is haunting.

Reminiscing over time, his faint smile drops to be replaced with a frown as he studies the grainy image. It’s clear enough to the trained eye that there is a body. Likely dead, though the article doesn’t mention that. Why would it? Civilians read the paper. Children even. He wouldn’t want Grace to read that. Vietnam isn’t of popular opinion and the good men and women serving get little credit for their sacrifice. He’s not going to mention this to Grace.

This year, 1967, has been a difficult year in Vietnam. So many deaths, so much loss. There is a shortage of helicopter pilots. They have been after him for three years now, but Grace is too young. He’s all she has as well. No grandparents to take her in, no aunts or uncles. It’s just he and Grace. So he had repeatedly said no. No re-enlistment. He doesn’t need the money. He’s well off. But they need him.

This is why he hadn’t slept. The news has kept him awake. His dreams return to his adventurous youth in the Korean War. Already a pilot at 17, for his father taught him young at the school in which he was employed, he had the skills needed. Though the helicopter took his father’s life, Jefferson wasn’t deterred. It had been human error, not the helicopter’s fault. Jefferson, cocky and arrogant, knew he was better. He didn’t fear death. He was untouchable. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes. So, he lied about his age. Said he was 18, provided the certification that he was an able bodied helicopter pilot, and off he went. From 17 to 20 he was there finding the missing, transporting the injured to medic stations, providing medical evacuations from behind dangerous enemy lines, delivering communications, and flying. It was dangerous, but it was good work.

But after the war ended, Jefferson and Priscilla got married in a hurry. A baby was on the way. ‘It’s too dangerous,’ Priscilla would say. ‘She’ll need us as a family together.’ Priscilla was right, he knew. Having a child at 20 woke him from his rambunctious, fearless ways. He grew up. He could end up like his father. Dead. Being a Marine was dangerous. It was time to be a father and husband. So, his service ended, he got out and the little family of three settled in Storybrooke, Maine.

Unfortunately, his time as a husband didn’t last long. Priscilla contracted something from the hospital where she worked. Might have been something she caught in Korea for all the doctors could tell. She died when Grace was two and he’d never think of going back into service, even if the Vietnam War was just gearing up. America wasn’t officially involved yet. He wasn’t needed. He was needed at home with Grace to fill the space of mother and father because she only had him.

Clearing his throat quietly, he shakes the paper upright again and attempts to focus on the words on the paper. He’d been staring at that article for two hours, but he couldn’t seem to get through the entire article. Then, a very clear ‘Dad!’ reaches his ears. The paper is dropped upon the desk and he moves to the door. Something is wrong.

“Grace?” he calls out in concern and heads for the kitchen.

-

That was quick, she thinks upon hearing the instant response from her father. It wasn’t as if she didn’t expect him to react immediately, he always had. Every single time she called for him or Mom while they still had her with them they were ready to see to her every need. In truth Grace knew she had a family unlike anyone else. For certain most parents were doting, loving, and tended to them as was right. However her parents more than adored her and she too felt equally devoted. Even more so now that the Buchanan Trio was now a Duo.

Despite their loss, Dad always made sure to see nothing was lacking in Grace’s life. Really should she ask for the moon, he’d probably find a way to get it for her. This did not mean she would ever abuse the love and kindness of her only parent. She cherished their family all the more because it was just them.

Grace has high aspirations and Dad did everything to encourage her to reach for the stars. Because of her parents each passing on their adventurous nature onto her, she had the desire to follow in their footsteps. Mom a nurse in Korea, exactly how Dad became enamored with her spirited mother, as he was a in the Marines with the dangerous search and rescue, no matter what Grace could not and would not deny her path. Medical school was the end game and she did everything to keep her grades up so as not to disappoint anyone - though most of all her Dad.

Which brought her back to the kitchen door frame and how she dreaded telling him she may have ruined an appliance. Coming clean about it was the only thing she could do, she hadn’t lied to her Dad about anything there was no way she would begin now.

He was probably halfway down the steps now and once he’s in view does she greet him a frown on her lips best showcased with her brown eyes brimming with guilt. She had good intentions. Dad had been very… well he never spoke of it, not to her he wouldn’t, but he was always worrying about the news of the upheaval of war in Vietnam.

She wrinkles her brow, “I think I killed the coffee maker,” her good intentions now only cause her Dad a mess and forking out for a possible new maker. “Sorry.”

-

Seeing that Grace is alright, he can assess the situation. She had gotten up early for coffee it seems. All concern over the news vanishes from his posture as he often does to keep his own worries away from bothering Grace. Her happiness is most important to him and he’d be damned if he was going to be the cause of his only child having woes.

Stepping over to where Grace leans against the counter facing the coffee maker, he leans as well and crosses his arms over his smoking jacket-clad chest as he studies the maker. He hadn’t bothered to get dressed just because he couldn’t sleep. It is six in the morning after all. 

“Is it on the fritz again?” Maybe it had never been on the fritz before, but he’ll not admit that. The plug sits against the counter top, not in the outlet, but he’s certain she had pulled it to stop whatever it had been doing. Grinning as he looks over at Grace, she looks positively worried over it. He’d sooner dump it in the trash than make her think she’d done something that would anger him. “Why don’t I show you how to make coffee on the stove the old fashioned way? Your mother taught me shortly after we met.” As he talks, he leans off of the counter and pulls a glass coffee pot from under the counter which he had only used a handful of times, but he’d never forget something Priscilla had done. Nor would he forget the conversations they had while she made that coffee either. It had been one of his fondest memories from Korea. 

“Fill it with water first,” he suggests and offers it to her. “Then we’ll make the best damn coffee you ever tried. Or… at least try. No one can beat your mom’s.” He smiles fondly at Grace and the memory. While she’s been gone for 12 years now, speaking to Grace about Priscilla is easier than to anyone else. It’s a way he can keep her alive in their home.

-

Parenthesis form between her brows at seeing Dad dressed in the same clothes she’d seen him in the day prior. Grace is curious and wants to ask why, but the fact that he is not at all disappointed in her failed attempts in an act of service that she figures he must have forgotten to take their orders to the dry cleaners this week.

On the fritz? Had it been? Grace usually sleeps in a little later and Dad is the one to prepare their morning coffee. It was one of highlights of her day. Sitting down at the breakfast table. Both with their cups of coffee prepared to their liking. She had to admit she liked hers a tad on the sweet side. Sitting together while he usually read the paper and she alternated between her cereal and looking over one of her Girl’s Life magazines. It was simple enough, but it was the only way to start her day.

Seeing his grin eases her mind as she hugs the robe close suggesting the old fashioned way. In her modern world, she hated to admit she didn’t know what he was speaking of. He’d made sure so much was at her convenience that really she didn’t feel like the domestic type. “So is this is how you fell in love? Over coffee?” she couldn’t help but ask with a mischievous smirk on her lips taking the glass pot and bringing it to the kitchen sink. Raises the tap to let the water poor she’d wait till he told her when to ‘whoa’ then quickly turns it off.

Grace brings it to the stove and patiently awaits further instructions. Tilting her head to look up to him, “I think its pretty romantic.”

-

Chuckling at Grace’s inquiry over falling in love, he notices the smirk before her back is to him to fill the pot.  
“Do you now? And what exactly does a 14 year old know of romance, hm?” Though he’s joking, he certainly doesn’t mind explaining the story about the coffee. After setting the stove to ‘high’ to allow the water to boil, he points to the utensil drawer. “Grab the measuring cup. The half cup size.” As they wait for the water to boil, he crosses his arms again to lean against the counter. It had been a while since he had shared one of his stories with Grace, but why not over coffee? While they may be stories, they were based on his and Priscilla’s history. Perhaps he ought to write it down in a book for Grace some day. Especially if the state of affairs continue as they are. 

“She was speaking to someone as if she had a… er, boyfriend. Who had caught her eye? Had it been one of her patients? I had to investigate. You see, I had been making up excuses to regularly show up at her aid station needing an extra pack of gauze or a penicillin shot for someone. I would have been mighty disappointed if some other guy had caught her fancy.” He waves a hand in the air as if his sly actions should be no surprise. “Come to find out, the room was empty aside from her, the coffee pot, and a little camp stove. I said to her, ‘you’re speaking to that coffee like it’s the love of your life.’ She told me if I didn’t like her coffee, I could take a hike and find another aid station. She already had a small parcel set aside for me. A pack of, er, chocolate bars, a bottle of soju, and a few candles. She was on to my tricks from day one.” Fashionable or not, he didn’t want to mention smoking to Grace so he neglected to mention that it was smokes instead of chocolate, and he probably shouldn’t have mentioned the liquor, but maybe she wouldn’t notice. Regardless, it was all out of the past now. 

“So, she was the one to initiate our first date. Coffee, Korean chocolate, and a camp stove. In an aid station. I ended up being helping her stitch up a wound or two that night. Romantic, right?” He’s joking about the romance, but he couldn’t help but chuckle over it. 

The water started boiling then, so he slides the coffee canister towards Grace. “Scoop out a half a cup of grounds and pour it into the coffee pot. Slowly.”

-

“And what do men know of romance?” she teases him back wrinkling her nose. Oh, she’d heard the story of how Mom and Dad met many times. In fact it was the story she requested over any bedtime story books. Her memories of Mom fragmented as they lost her both too soon. Really she craved to hear any and every story again and again.

She quickly goes to the correct drawer and quirks a couple of fingers through the handle to pull. A little sifting till she finds the correct measuring cup. Closing the drawer, Grace returns to the stove returning to her spot at the stove, but pauses as she listens to every single detail, committing it to memory. Making sure to write it all down in her journal later. She prefers the term journal as it has a more grown up appeal than a girlish diary.

For a moment the coffee is forgotten as in her mind she does her best to picture the canvas hospital aid station. Her Mom in the regulation fatigues fit for a brave military nurse. Though she can not recall the gentle tone of a mother’s voice, Grace does her best to take the dialog provided and with her best imagination hear Mom’s voice in her mind.

Next trying as best as she can to picture Dad, a little younger and she remembers browsing pictures of him in his dress blues. He looked quite sharp. As if mom would fancy anyone else? A grin widens as she thinks to herself while Dad continues. She may be entirely, she just knew her father was the best, so naturally her mom would too. It also doesn't surprise her that mom would easily catch on. Always knowing the woman was smart as a whip and the fieriness was a draw for Dad no doubt. Well, that and she was quite a beauty with her lovely ginger hair.

Grace looks down to her hair wishing she too had such a lovely hue other than her plain dark blonde she was born with. It crosses her mind that maybe she could dye it to the same shade... but that was for another discussion and if Dad would allow it. "Apparently she liked your tricks."

-

Jefferson chuckled, smiling closed lipped. "Apparently so." They had only been married a few years by the time he'd lost her, but their time in Korea, his courting her whenever he got the chance between missions, were an extension of their time. He'd cherish all of it. 

Just as he cherished these lessons and stories shared with Grace. 

"I was pretty lucky she saw through the arrogance. I was invincible then. Nothing could touch me on the missions. Others were shot, some worse than that..." He glanced at her to see if he was saying too much. "I went through most of the war without being hit. Last day though... my arrogance caught up to me." His fingers pulled at the collar of the robe to reveal the old scar that ringed his neck. She'd seen it before, even asked him about it when she was two just after they had lost her mother. But the scar... He could almost feel the sensation of the metal cutting the delicate skin again because of poor choices he had made, the burning feeling of it. Wondering if he was going to die then, but miraculously he didn't. It had been some kind of miracle, like magic, because that was usually a death sentence. "An abandoned trip wire. The guys got me back to the aid station fast. Priscilla patched me up. I was done. Went home, and we got married not long after she came back, and then you came along." 

"Don't get married until you're about thirty, sweetheart. Men aren't mature enough to deserve you. Maybe not even after thirty..." He winked at her as he lifted the tea kettle from the stove just as soon as the whistle began to signal the water boiled.

It was a distraction. He couldn't begin to think of Grace being old enough for dating, let alone marriage. The thought sent a light shiver through him. And what if she finds someone arrogant, foolish, and far too adventurous to provide her with a safe life? He shook his head at the thought of his reaction.

-

Grace knew of this scar, she'd seen it before and never once asked as it was obviously something he was self-conscious about. Completely understandable to the teen, however he was still Dad and always would be, scar or not. It usually remained concealed so not to cause inquiry. Though this was the first time she could recall having heard how Dad had received this.

She looks down as trying to imagine the action, it had to have happened so quickly there wasn't any time to escape. This caused a shiver to run through her. Just the thought of almost losing him (along with her mom) was not thoughts she liked to entertain. Having so little family remaining, all she had was Dad.

Her eyes return to his at the mention of Mom's name. Then quirks an eyebrow at his request and steps up next to him while the kettle whistles, "I'm not sure I want to get married. I have too many things I want to do. And besides if I can't have something like you and Mom had, then I don't want it at all."

-

As reassuring as her statement was, for now anyway, he still shook his head, grinning as he kept his eyes on the kettle. "Pour the measured coffee in, then we'll strain it into the mugs."

He switched off the gas burner and set the kettle back down. Crossing his arms over his chest to let her continue with this lesson on coffee making, he leaned back against the counter again facing the stove. 

"Whatever you decide, it's your decision." She sounded too much like himself. Too many things to do, to see... That might have been inevitable, he knew. 

The doorbell rang then which drew his attention from the coffee prep and the subject of Grace's future. "Be right back, Sweetheart." Who could be at the door this early in the sleepy town, he had no idea. But once he pulled the door open, the Western Union delivery man handed an envelope to him. "Good morning?" Jefferson mumbled as he took the envelope. The delivery man tapped his cap and turned around. 

Shutting the door, Jefferson leaned back against it as he tore open the envelope. 

\-- Chief Warrant Officer Buchanan, Jefferson (stop)  
\-- You are promoted to the aforementioned rank (stop)  
\-- You are ordered to report to active duty in one week from today's date (stop)  
\-- A drastic increase in manpower is required for the war effort (stop)  
\-- Congratulations (stop)  
\-- General Akron, US MARINES (stop)

Jefferson's jaw sagged as he lowered the telegram. Grace. He had no where to send her. She had no one but himself. He had no option to decline this time. For three years he had been able to say no. Now, what was he going to do?

He was thirty four years old, only flew one weekend a month for Reserve training to keep his wings and skills fresh. And now he was being ordered to leave his daughter. For work. For duty. But what about his duty to raise Grace? He'd promised Priscilla on her death bed that he wouldn't let her grow up alone. 

Wrought with uncertainty and a trace of despair, he ambled back into the kitchen.

-

Following Dad's instructions, taking the coffee first pouring it like so though the doorbell and Dad leaving the kitchen momentarily catches her attention. Also wondering who might interrupt them this early in the morning? Dad always drove her to school, always picked her up. She had few friends and those she had wouldn't be so rude to just drop by. Most were still in bed or reluctantly waking up for the day ahead. She listens with intent, but nothing much other than a mumbled Good morning in Dad's voice.

She knew there was a lot of uncertainty around the pair. She made sure not to watch the news coverage of the turmoil in Vietnam - along with the rest of the country - while he was present. Sometimes sneaking down late at night to see what she could learn. That or occasionally just finding old newspapers in his room eager and worried of what might be in print. The need to be informed always won over.

As best as Grace can, she fixes a smile on her face as he returns to the kitchen. "Who was that? It was pretty rude of them to just stop by like that." It was meant to keep the mood light as there suddenly felt like an undeniable heaviness present in their household. She clears her throat nervously, "Is everything okay?" she asks despite the sense of dread she can feel tensing up in her shoulders. 

-

With a distracted mind, he glanced up to Grace as she asked who it was. "Uhm, just... Western Union. You know what? It's not important. How's that coffee looking?" 

He tried to mask the pain surely etching his features and spread a closed-lipped grin across his face for her benefit. As he approached her, he set the telegram and torn envelope on top of the refrigerator as he passed it, never taking his eyes off of Grace and what she was doing. This was their moment, not the Marines' and not General Akron's, damn him. 

He pulled a drawer opened and pulled out a mesh strainer and sat it atop a mug. "It's probably ready by now and if it's weak coffee, blame me. It's been... how old are you, ten?!" He joked. He knew she was older than that, but now, especially with the damned orders hanging over his head like an executioner's blade, he wanted to remember her as his little girl, not the fact that she was growing up too fast. "At least 10 years since I've brewed coffee this way."

-

She gets the idea it wasn't just something they can easily ignore that Dad had received from Western Union. Trying to not let on that she's following his movements as to where the envelope was set atop the refrigerator, maybe if she's lucky she can take a peek as to what is written. Her gut instinct says Dad's sheltering her from whatever is on the telegram. She knows him well enough to know indeed important.

She is ready with a side hug, always invading his space this way it was just out of habit. Though it would seem he really did need a hug after the news he's still trying to distract her from. Tilting her chin up with a wry smile, "Fourteen, Dad. But I suppose you can't help it. I mean old people forget all the time, right?" she jests, a little levity couldn't hurt, right? Of course she knows her parents are much younger than the rest of her peers.

Grace reaches for usual mug, white with a simple little rabbit's face drawn on the surface. He always called her little rabbit so as soon as she saw this mug, she immediately asked if she could get it. Inhaling the lovely aroma of a fresh brewed cup of coffee. "It smells great though."

-

Jefferson scoffed at her jab at his age. "That's impossible. Just yesterday you were running around in diapers!" He sighed in faux exasperation and ruffled her hair as she put an arm around him. God, he would miss this. 

"Besides, you're only as old as you feel and I remember everything, young lady." Jokingly stated, it was rather true, he believed. Her whole life was flashing before his eyes as he smiled at Grace, and for the second time that day. And it was barely 7 in the morning. 

He picked up his mug as well, an old, beat up, dark-glazed piece of pottery in which he couldn't recall ever buying. He'd had it for as long as he could remember. Maybe it came with the house, not that the impoverished looking mug went with the modern decor... But it was his, like an old treasured heirloom he'd always had.

Taking a sip, he closed his eyes as it brought back the memory of Priscilla when she first handed him a tin mug of her brew. "Not quite the same as hers, but close," he remarked, and gave her arm a squeeze drawing her into his side in the embrace.

-

She rolls her eyes immediately at him mentioning her in diapers. What was it about parents wanting to always remember the point in their kids lives when they had to wear those awful things? Memories that were knowledge to her, yet she's not sure why she's even questioning them in her mind. Of course she once wore diapers. All children did at some point.

"I'll take that excuse," she teases further. "And if you should forget, you got me to remind you."

She gives her head a tiny shake to ignore this, it helps that Dad draws her close. Resting her temple to his arm, Grace takes the rabbit mug and brings it to her lips eager to taste what might be the closest thing to Mom's coffee. Closing her eyes as she takes the first gulp. Wanting to taste it black first. Wanting as much to hold onto her imagination and what it must have been like in Korea while her parents were first together.

Opening her eyes, a genuine smile forms on her lips, "It feels like Mom."


	2. "Stories? What's a Story? It Has to Come from Somewhere."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Flashback to Korea, Priscilla, and a pretty bad neck wound._

Jefferson grinned at her agreement. “One more story and then it’s time to get dressed for school, okay?” The coffee was bringing up all sorts of memories of Priscilla. Some were good memories, some were laced with pain and loss, but all were worth remembering because they kept her alive in spirit. And with Grace so young when she lost her mother, it was important to talk about her often in effort to lessen the sense of loss. 

“It was New Year’s Eve, 1952, when I told your mom that I was going to marry her. Hard to think it was almost New Year’s with as warm as it was. Or maybe just the aid station’s warmth.”

“It had been one week since the accident on Christmas Day.” He drew his finger across his neck by the scar in explanation still visible after so many years. “She stayed by my side most of that whole week. Your mom had been tending to me almost completely by herself. There was a doctor, but with so many in need, they thought I was a wasted use of limited resources with that kind of injury. It was left on her shoulders to stitch me up. I don’t know how I stayed conscious until arrival, but I watched her focus for as long as I could. Something about her felt safe, like being home.” Or it could have been the blood loss, but he preferred the magical version.

\------  
_December 26, 1952_

Jefferson woke to the sound of the most oddly placed Christmas carol. ‘Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow.’ He could laugh. They were in the damned mountains with valleys containing foul smelling rice patties. Barely any trees. Nothing for snow to even stick to except the ground what with the severe loss of trees after so much bombing. It was supposed to be damned cold in Korea in the winter, but all he could remember were the monsoons of the summer. Where was the snow? Let the singer, Vaughn Monroe, wish for it all he wanted. Jefferson hadn’t seen it that winter yet.

But he couldn’t laugh. Not with the damage sustained to his throat the previous day. Even the thought of swallowing food or liquid had pulled at his stitches under the bandages. Everything hurt, so he refused nourishment. 

He turned his eyes to the left and right, not moving his head. _What if it falls off?_ A random thought flitted through his mind as if a whisper. _It had been detached just yesterday, after all._ The reasonable part of his conscience spoke the words _‘shell shock’_ in answer to the whisper as an explanation. His head hadn’t been detached! He wouldn’t be hearing ironic Christmas music if it had. _Perhaps some maniacal laughter and thousands of other heads and hats on piles in the dark room with the stained glass window as he repeated ‘Get it to work!’ to himself could explain the detached feeling. His fingers gripped the invisible needle and thread weaving it in and out as he stitched the head back onto the body in front of himself. ‘Get it to work! I have to…’_

Jefferson squeezed his eyes shut bringing his clenched fists to his temples. The painkillers were too much. He was hallucinating now. He’d have to somehow tell them. Tell Priscilla, she’d understand. He’d never hallucinated before. It was the meds. Pilots don’t hallucinate. This was bad for his career. Bad for his future. _So is losing your head._

_That’s what I meant! he argued back. No… I’m not going to talk to myself, with poison in my veins._

_Seeping into your veins, through your neck and into your mind… None of this is real. The madness is more real than anything else._

_Shut up!_ He opened his eyes again becoming frantic. The heart rate monitor attached to his chest began to sound in alarm. Yet, Jefferson couldn’t place the added noise. Everything blended together. The medicine, the Christmas music, the heat in the aid station. He broke into a cold sweat as he gripped his head.

-

Adjusting the scarf around her neck as she's just stepped out for some fresh air, though Priscilla wrinkles her nose at the stale air of sweat, blood, and ash from the burning not far. Another bomb perhaps, maybe the use of flame to fend off a possible attack to the medical unit. What a better way to cripple the enemy than to eliminate their source of medical aid? 

With the untamed ginger tresses threatening to escape the bun she tied it up in, oh how many days had it been now? She sneers an upper lip at that. That and the fact that this fresh air was making her nauseous. What she wouldn't give to feel the breeze off the sea right about now. Oh, they'd had plenty of weather here. Enough to last her a lifetime. But she longed for home. It had been years since she heard the voices of her parents. Letters just didn't do then justice.

Neither did that annoying record of Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow someone insisted on playing over and over till it just about drive her mad. It didn't matter if the calendar read it was the day after Christmas and it hadn't been Christmas since she was last home.

However she had, had her share of happiness even if it was just in the here and now. Her eyes turn to the incapacitated young marine pilot resting on one of the designated cots available. Jefferson has taken up a lot of her time and not just after he was rushed in on what was supposed to be the happiest time of the year. No, they'd been stealing moments here and there, usually whenever he brought in more wounded. It came with mixed emotions. One, always saddened by the things man could do to harm another yet... Two, it also meant he would be coming. Not that she necessarily admitted it. She prided herself enough to not let on too soon she liked him a great deal.

For sure she hadn't ever been so frightened then when it wasn't just some man or civilian being brought in, but the sight of him almost dying... she dropped everything and lost count of how many hours it took to just get him stabilized and resting. It was worth it though. He was still alive and even if she was the only one looking in on him, she was too stubborn to let him die on her. Even having told him that repeatedly in his unconscious state.

Priscilla jumps in place when the alarm starts ringing in her ears. That moment of peace with the stagnant air was over. And she rushes to his side. Checking the monitor first, noticing his heart rate spike. 

"Will ya cut that music about now?" She gripes shaking her head. Then as she takes a seat at his bedside, "Nonstop, can you believe it? I swear I never want to hear that song again after this is over," she mutters to Jefferson as she brings a hand over his. Her voice softens, "Now, what caused this? Is it that lousy song or my beauty overwhelming you?" She rolls her eyes at the last part given she has worn nothing but fatigues, and this scarf that she needs to pitch with all the holes in it. "Don't worry, I'm here, okay."

-

The panic he was experiencing was overwhelming. He'd witnessed first hand his buddies getting shot or blown apart just feet away from him multiple times already over the past couple of years. He'd thought himself invincible as he'd never been hurt, not once on any of their missions. But this time, he'd screwed up, separated from the others on a whim. Arrogance does that. It gets your neck caught up on a wire, the wire trips and yanks backwards. 

It had surprised him at first. Then the pain set in, but in a distant way. He couldn't breathe. Fear set in stronger than pain. He was being hanged by a wire. Fortunately, he hadn't been so separated from the others as he'd thought and was cut down quickly. 

The entire drive back, the guys talked about Christmas, about family - which Jefferson had none left so it meant nothing to him - about gifts from childhood - he couldn't recall any really except for a handmade mug. But the background noise helped him remain conscious. They were talking to keep him awake and alive. 

And now, in the aid station, as the noises blared around his head and the internal voice was screaming at him to get up, to run before his head fell off, to escape, to go home where it's safe, he was overwhelmed. The things he was seeing made no sense. Why the hats? Yet conversely, this place he was in made him feel so oddly displaced. Where did he belong? 

He could recognize it was panic, the inability to act, to save oneself. Reasoning with himself to calm down, to breathe through his nose slowly, that none of those things in his head were real. It was the sedatives! The building was real, he was real. The voice he heard speaking to him was the most real of all.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. Priscilla sat on the edge of the bed grabbing his hand speaking calmly despite how erratic he felt and he squeezed back. She was talking about that horrible Christmas song. His eyes shifted towards the direction of the music, but turned back to her. She was in his line of sight. Her hair pulled up like always, the fatigues she wore, that holey scarf that he wanted to replace for her with one of his own. It was all familiar, something to ground him back to reality.

And he almost laughed at her joke. The sass she had could make any situation better, he realized, as his panic eased into relax. Her beauty was certainly something to get his heart rate up, but it actually helped him calm down. It was her presence really and the reassurance. She wouldn't be there if he was crazy. She exists, not the room full of heads for hat holders. 

The machine's alarm silenced then as he calmed and closed his eyes. The hand gripping hers moved up her forearm over the sleeve giving it a faint squeeze as well. The sedatives were still making his limbs feel heavy. Sleep called. 

-

It takes a moment for him to be awakened from whatever was causing him distress. Priscilla supposes it must be reliving the trauma of what landed him here. He wasn't the first she experienced having night terrors causing the heart rate to raise and sometimes fever to spike. There had been a few times that men fought her and the doctors to just stay in bed and in their mind it was still happening. Each one diagnosed with a case of shell shock and combat fatigue.

She hated to have him here like this. Though it also meant that if he was here, he wasn't out flying to retrieve the wounded only to come back to her. And he always did. At least with him bedridden for however long it would take him to recuperate, he was under her watchful eyes.

Her eyes flit to the monitor to note that the beats slowly return to a relaxed pace. Good. Feeling the gentle squeeze on her forearm is probably the best way he can communicate at the moment. Her eyes return to his, a soft smile forming on her lips, "That's better. You rest all you like and I'm not going to leave."

She'd be damned if she would either and would like to see anyone make her. Practically living at the mobile station, she hadn't seen her own cot in the nurses quarters for some time. If need be she'd just share his, she was adamant on staying right there with him. 

Once the sedatives take over again, she's sure though he can still hear her. Priscilla leans over so that she could whisper into ear, "And you're not going to leave me either you hear. I won't allow it. You know I'll get you for it if you try." She raises till they're face to face, hoping to see if there's any reaction. "Since you seem to be pretty lucky, there might just be a kiss waiting for you when you're well enough."

-

As heavy as his eyelids felt, he opened them just a slit. Her red hair was near to brushing against his cheek as she spoke threats to him if he were to leave her just after her resolution to remain with him. It was enough to evoke a faint smile. How he could possibly go anywhere was beyond his comprehension. He felt like his clothes were weighed down with sand from the hourglass. Long as you're whispering sweet nothings in my ear like that, I'm not going anywhere. But he failed to form the words to be spoken aloud. The sand was too heavy and continuing to pile up. 

Maybe he was still hallucinating because he was certain he heard her promise a kiss in the future. Had to be the meds. He was certainly lucky, had even bragged about it for years, but as he laid there immobilized for fear of provoking another strain to the antagonist in his head, he didn't feel so lucky anymore. If not for Priscilla, he wouldn't be around; she'd saved his life. 

But since he was alive and hadn't completely succumbed to the effects of the beheading as the voice continued to insist, he figured he may as well live. He had to improve to get that kiss. Despite the fact that he'd hope she'd plant one on him sooner than later, he had no ability to kiss her properly as she deserved, so the attempted grin remained on his face as he closed his eyes again. 

-

Seeing that grin was enough to reassure her that he was still coherent enough to hear keywords she was saying. It was a relief. Especially after he had gone and scared her half to death when he came in. She'd seen plenty of people come through and never had she been truly scared to lose one of the patients.The doctors hadn't thought he would make it. She knew he was too cocky and she too stubborn to give up that easily.

With him resting, she remains right there at his bedside and waits rather impatiently to see when the sedatives would taper and clarity would return. Now if he should have been too delirious to have heard her the first time, she would have no problem reminding him.

While Priscilla tries to recall just how many hours she's been awake, using the Navy issued coffee rations to keep her alert to any movement, alarm, anything that may show sign from the equipment surrounding him indicating any issues. Another night and alternating between checking his pulse and changing his cool compresses, he is still with her.

At the first sign that he should wake, she is still there beside him and with a tin coffee cup in hand, "Well, don't you like to make a grand entrance, Buchanan. Next time, try not to be so dramatic." She is just beyond thankful because now there can be a next time.

-

It was the coffee that woke him the next morning, December 27. He hadn't exactly been keeping track of the days. It was just something he did. Time was something that kept ticking along and he'd been able to rise at a specific time no matter day or night. He just knew. Same for the date. And that god-awful record was still playing further indicated that it was still the Christmas season. How Priscilla hadn't broken the record by now was beyond him. Maybe it was because she barely left him. Just as promised.

He'd felt some shifting on the cot. Her getting up, pulling the compresses from his neck, sitting back down off and on throughout the night. But he'd been easily able to remain calm. He could hear her even through his drugged state and that was reason enough not to wake fully. She kept the hallucinations at bay when near. 

And on December 27th, the smell of coffee and her voice indicating she knew he was awake was enough reason to open his eyes. Try not to be so dramatic. Next time. Next time? God, he hoped there wouldn't be a next time. 

"I'll try not to disappoint, L.T.," he quipped at the order he'd heard in her tone. He winced at the rough sound escaping his vocal cords. His throat was drier than hell. When had he last drank anything? Christmas morning? He'd probably had IVs. He doubted Priscilla's skills would have allowed him to dehydrate. 

Wetting his lips, he tried again, propping an elbow against the cot to attempt to sit in a more elevated position. "That for me?" What he wouldn't do for a cup of her brews. The aroma sparked an instant appetite and his stomach audibly rumbled. But the sudden movement of inclining was just that. Too sudden to sit up. His neck, the stitches, the thick bandages ringing his neck... 

His eyes fell as he settled back into the cot. The scar was a permanent mark of his foolishness. A bad decision he'd made would mark him forever. There was something to that, more loss than to his pride, but whatever it was - and it felt important - was slipping away the more lucid he became. Must be the drugs leaving his system. It was the easy explanation.

-

Tilting her head, loose strands framing her face as she moves, "Try?" she tsk's, shaking her head at him while standing up from the bedside. Her back, neck, oh hell all of her ached. But she couldn't remember a time in these two years when she didn't. For her there was at least one good reason for all this discomfort. Though she wouldn't admit it, it would be easy to pull a wisdom tooth, that she would rather have all the soreness by just knowing he's well taken care of. Maybe it's her own pride, but there's a reason why she's the Lieutenant here. "Better do more than try. It's a direct order," Priscilla says in jest as she first sets the coffee cup down on table while she makes sure everything is in order. "It's so hard breaking in new people and many are terribly annoying."

Then taking a seat along the bedside again, a little closer. While he was out, she felt it the perfect opportunity to change the dressing as this was a startling reminder of how she almost lost him. Though now as she gazed upon the bandage she was beginning to see it differently. It was now on par with a miracle. That is should be seen as a blessing that he is here.

"Well, to be frank no. This is for me," however she angles an arm behind his shoulders to gently elevate him with slow movements. He has to be damn sore, but again she'd rather him be sore and alive than the alternative. Using the pillows and her arm as leverage to keep him steady. "However, since I didn't get you a Christmas gift, will this suffice?" reaching with her free hand to carefully to hold the cup for him.

-

He tried to hide the grimace formed when he shifted on the cot to incline again with her help. Talking was enough to pull at his neck, but it was worth it for present company. And he couldn't just let her get away with that remark. 

"How very flattering. You've broken me in so that I don't annoy you," he deadpanned casting her a look, but he couldn't hide the amused smirk if he tried. With her arm was around his back, she was nearly leaning into him, and she was giving him coffee as a Christmas gift? Hell, her nearness alone was a gift. "I must be one lucky sonofabitch." His eyes, heavy lidded as they were moved from watching her eyes, a quick glance to her lips so close to him. His lips twitched in wanting to lean forward just enough to meet hers, but he was no fool. She'd probably upend that cup right in his lap, recovering or not, if he made the first move. He'd spent two years getting to know Priscilla in chance run ins, assisting in a surgery when the nurses and docs were too overrun with patients, or had an occasional chance to banter over that coffee she was also teasing him with. There would be no pity kiss. He had to earn it. She was ruthless, and damn was that sexy. She was a challenge and to someone as competitive as he, a partner he saw as an equal was always the more attractive option. Not that he'd developed eyes for anyone else. One taste of her coffee and he was sold. 

To save his future offspring from threat of extinction, he wrapped his hand around the tin cup and her fingers feeling the warmth from her, too. He'd done it on purpose, of course. "Speaking of lucky, I seem to recall in a haze... yesterday I think. There was mention of..." he pursed his lips in deep thought as if he could potentially be mistaken but he was mostly certain he hadn't made that up. "A kiss?"

-

The corner of her mouth curls into a sly closed lipped smirk. His remark is enough to make her huff a laugh. He was listening, that was good. Then again he was always listening to her snark depending on whatever mood she was in - usually one filled with biting wit that he was on the receiving end. She had to initiate him after all. If he couldn't take her sarcasm and taunts, then he wouldn't be worth her time. He was probably the only one who didn't back down. Was a persistent yet kept his distance. Jefferson was patient, she would give him that. Two years so far of their odd run ins that even if she never would admit it was something she looked forward to and he kept returning to her.

Certainly he could have his pick of the ladies. He was quite a handsome man, she was sure he knew it too. And if he didn't, the way the ladies would flirt with him would be a good indicator. What caused her to though to allow him a chance - just one chance - is that unlike most of the other fellas he didn't have a case of the wandering eye. Every time he was there, he only saw her. That was worth giving him a chance over, even if he was on the young side. 

Adjusting her hold around his shoulders, she'd done this thousands of times by now that she could do this blindfolded, "Yeah, that is the one thing you would hear, Buchanan?" and she saw exactly where his eyes were going too. Let him. It'll be good motivation. She had no intention of kissing anyone else. Though also not him. Not yet.

Also not missing his fingers overlapping hers as they have their hands around the coffee cup. She will allow that as much as she's allowing him to be this close to her. That also didn't mean she was about to relinquish who had control over this situation. No, she liked being in charge whether it was assisting him here or the way she outranked his Warrant Officer title. Even as a girl she had an independent spirit and that only became stronger into adulthood.

"That could be arranged," she says in a breathy tone daring to lean in till their noses are brushing. Though she wouldn't dole out a kiss that easily to him. At least not the kind he had his hopes on. Instead, she moves her lips higher to briefly kiss him on the tip of his nose. "Didn't say what kind of kiss," she pulls back just enough to assure him that's all he's getting for now.

With her hand still around the cup guiding it towards his lips, "Now, you better drink up. Or I'll be mighty pissed if you let this go stale." 

-

So he was right. He hadn't imagined her mention of kissing him. Priscilla leaned in and he thought his luck was soaring. Maybe getting strung up two days ago and nearly dying was it for his run of bad luck. He tilted his head just slightly, his focus completely on her nearness and not on his neck at all. Closing his eyes, ready to taste her lips, he reached his free hand up to touch her waist. It's farther than he'd ever gotten with the Lieutenant before and he was elated to know she wasn't backing down, they weren't getting called away for some emergency - they were in a hostile zone after all - and it was Christmas. Damn good coffee and a kiss was more than he'd expected when waking up clear headed on his death bed

But she shifted, he felt her movement through his touch at her waist, and his eyes snapped up to find her kissing his nose. His eyebrows shot up. Oh, he should have known better. But the grin spread across his face regardless. Didn't say what kind of kiss, hm? "One of these days, Priscilla," he chanced saying her first name narrowing an eye at her. It seemed the right thing to do in such an intimate position and they were the only two awake around here anyway. 

She was trying to shove the coffee on him now surely as a way to cover up the fact that she had in fact kissed him. Nose or not, she kissed him. He took a hearty sip of the best damn coffee he'd ever had (possibly amplified in value what with the god-awful 15 year old British rations they had been subjected to lately), finally quenching his dry throat. His eyes rolled up in his head and he sighed taking the liberty to pat her waist, looking like the cat that got the cream. "Now I can die a happy man." 

-

 _One of these days._ She never said she wouldn't kiss him. And he should count his lucky stars because if any other fella dared to touch her - though rather innocent - despite being wounded, she'd have released her hold on the man letting him drop as punishment. "Humph," she shakes her head while she's allowing him far too many liberties at the moment. She chides herself internally for this. That still didn't deny the fact she could have lost him in some dumb accident and how losing him would have created an unwanted emptiness in her. "I should reprimand you for addressing me as anything less than Sir or Lieutenant." 

It was an empty threat. Always thinking her name was ill fitting to herself, it sounded quite nice when he said it. He was probably the only one to use it in the course of three years. Having enlisted in the Navy the year before everything went to pieces, she's been nothing but Lt. Tennyson - or whatever rank she was at the time. Although he did like to throw around Lt. Tenny on occasion. He should know he's in her good graces because with anyone else she'd make sure it was the first and last time it ever happened.

"And I better never hear you say you can die ever again, Buchanan," her voice trying to remain stern yet there is easily a detection of true concern. "After all the trouble I went through to make sure you can sit there and say something that dumb to me..." her lips forming a thin line as she tries to get some more coffee in him and feeling her temper rising. "Consider this a direct order, you're not going to. Got it?"

-

He might have touched a nerve when he only meant to needle at her teasing him. Joking around about death in a place where death visited on a daily basis had certainly been insensitive of him. He had no intention of dying and leaving the world with so much to see and experience. As a pilot, he saw the world as smaller, just one jump to the next land and the next.

"Yes, ma'am," he drawled acknowledging her wishes. No way would he call her Sir. No matter how dirty the job, covered in the blood, sweat and tears of others, he could see through it to the soft woman beneath whom he'd caught glimpses of. 

Even now, she wasn't dumping him on his back. "I wouldn't dream of it." He took a final drink of coffee, the caffeine he was far too tolerant of, but the warmth was relaxing, and he was still recuperating. So he eased himself back down into the cot, his hand slipping down to her hip just a faint trace (because he dared to remind her he wasn't giving up) before he removed it to fold over his chest. He didn't want to do something stupid in front of the L.T. Apparently what he'd considered charming heavily insulted her hard work and he'd be loathe to disappoint her.

As if a higher power was intent of proving a point, the beating tut-tut-tut of a distant Iroquois was just settling down nearby. The guys would be bringing in any injured men soon and he wasn't capable of helping. There were far more serious things going on and he shouldn't be so callous. "Thank you, Tenny," choosing her last name or part of it anyway as she did for him. "I wouldn't be here now if it wasn't for you."

-

A _yes, ma'am_ was still skirting around her conditions with him and military regulations. So was where he had his hand as well. Another thing she could and should catch him on. Maybe she was going soft, or just too tired to fight him on it, she couldn't tell. This was her second night without sleep. Maybe an hour or so if she was lucky.

Priscilla sets down the cup quickly at the closest surface of the bedside table. It clunks down and some of the warm liquid sloshing over and onto her hands. As he tries to ease himself to lie back down. She slips her arm out from around his shoulder blades and a careful grip on his shoulders to help him.

Not liking that she'd even allowed that bit of vulnerability to be shown, the Lieutenant squares her shoulders and releases her hold on him. Even if he was calling her Tenny, she exhales through her nose doing her best not to snap at him again... which she's sure is an impossible task.

"That's better..." she's cut off with the sound of the Iroquois overhead and nearing landing. Turning abruptly to where the tent flap would open shortly and men would be ushered in each varying in wounds. It all depended on what they encountered in the thick of it or through an ambush and what she and the rest of the medical staff could do... sometimes there was nothing they could do.

Just the sound of the choppers in the air causes takes her back two days to when he was rushed in. Her hand slips to lay over his wrist where she grips it lightly. There had been no time to panic. There was only time to act. When the surgeon declared his wound fatal, she was ready to slap him no matter the repercussions (as she was sure to land her into some serious hot water). If it hadn't been for their assistant surgeon willing to help her despite everything telling them it was futile, they managed to keep him alive.

-

Just laying horizontally again was sweet relief. His head had begun to feel as if it was spinning again. The blood loss was still affecting him. Sleepily he watched Priscilla as she was clearly deep in thought, especially when she reached out to grip his wrist. Why? Was she checking his pulse? Or could she just not stand to not touch him? His arrogance told him she was crazy about him, of course. But if he focused, he could see just how tired she must be. And he recalled that through the long hours of sleep, he had still known she had been right there. Keeping him alive.

I won't leave you and you won't leave me. She had said those words at some point and they echoed in his memory. She seemed to have kept her promise and it was wearing her down. 

As his eyes began to feel too heavy to keep open, he mumbled before succumbing to sleep. "Get some rest. I told you. Sweet talking me like that, I'm not going anywhere." Maybe he thought he'd said it aloud the previous day, maybe he hadn't. He was too tired to figure out the difference.  
\-----  
The surgeon walked past, stopped and glanced in on the head nurse and the patient which he had been convinced two days ago would not make it. He seemed to have been proved wrong. But an injury like that would have permanent side affects, unless he was very lucky. "Lieutenant Tennyson, a word?" He'd speak quietly to her handing her a memo and a DD-214, discharge papers. "Warrant Officer Buchanan is set to be discharged after he's well enough to be moved. He's done a great service, but he's got to go home to finish recuperating. Amazing he's made through the worst of it." He shook his head with a look towards the sleeping patient, shot a grave look at the nurse, and headed off towards the doors as yet another bloodied marine was rushed in.

-

Ripped from her own flashback at the sound of Jefferson's tired voice and his smartass comment too. Despite him healing, she has no issue swatting him with the back of her hand against his arm. It wouldn't sting, but she wouldn't let him get away with saying that to her either. Even if she wants rest, rest isn't possible. Between making sure he doesn't do anything else stupid or the choppers landing not far, is a reminder she'll sleep when she gets home. Home being the states.

The sound of the head surgeon approaching her, and not asking - officers never ask only order - her to join him for a moment to discuss whatever document he must be holding in his hands. She's not exactly sure why it's handed to her unless this is a formal reprimand for acting instead of following his orders when Jefferson was brought in.

Before she gets a chance to even take a peek the Colonel informs her of the information contained inside. The whole time she remains stoic, "Yes, sir," she figured as much. To the military he was no longer useful so best make way for another reckless young man ready and waiting to do something idiotic like become a helicopter pilot and take Buchanan's place. 

Priscilla quickly tucks the documents away in the bedside table next to Jefferson's cot for safekeeping. Then it was to the helicopters to see who else was straddling the line between life and death. Her job is to meet the choppers and help decide who can and cannot be saved given her position as head nurse. Not something she likes, having to write good men off because there just isn't anything they can do eats away at her night and day.

On her way running to the choppers, she catches a lower ranking nurse, and yelling over the chaos, "Buchanan's in your hands now, got it. Don't let him do anything else stupid." Not even waiting to hear a rebuttal Priscilla finally reaches the crew. Sifting through the wounded she's reminded why it's always best to keep her distance. A hard lesson to learn, but this was a rude awakening she needed.

\--------------

"Okay..." with the hand around her rabbit coffee mug, Grace holds up her index finger to interject. She'd not wanted to pause her Dad's train of thought as she is always hungry for more information about her parents, their time in Korea, and especially anything related to Mom. But this is confusing to the teenager. "Wait a minute. I thought you and mom had been kinda already together. You didn't just leave without saying anything. I mean I'm here, but if you had to leave, then how did you two end up married?"

-

"I'm getting to that, Little Rabbit," Jefferson said with a faint smile of adoration to Grace. "Remember I said it was New Year's Eve when I told her? I didn't exactly ask her while in Korea. I told her what I would do. You see, when I found those discharge papers I knew I had to do something or I'd never see her again. And a woman like that is a once in a lifetime find."

-  
_December 31, 1952_

He'd gotten out of bed without assistance. The first thing he did was go to the latrine alone, for god's sake. There was something about walking after days in a death bed that made recovery improve the spirits. He'd still had the bandages around his neck and it felt rather restrictive, but he wasn't ready to lay eyes on what had happened yet. 

He also hadn't spoken to Priscilla in a few days. Some other nurse had been tending him but she saw him as another faceless passerby. He didn't give her the time of day, quickly becoming agitated. If he was going to be stuck in that damn bed, he was certainly not going to take orders from a junior nurse. 

His guys were out there working and risking their own necks while he laid around. He'd wanted to get up and go as well, but was firmly restricted to the bed. It pissed him off. He'd even gone so far as to demand LT. Penny to tell him so, but he was denied. That was when his papers were found. It pissed him off further. He had no say. He could still fly. What was a neck injury? He hadn't lost a foot, an eye or a hand, the things necessary for flying. 

But nothing would sway the surgeon. Orders came from higher up. He was done.

And after he finished in the latrine, he found the famed record player still playing the Christmas music and promptly snapped the record over his knee. He gained a few thumbs ups from other bedridden marines. 

He sent them a nod and continued his search for Priscilla. He'd be damned if he'd leave Korea without speaking his mind.

-

For a rare chance of peace and quiet, there had been no sight of choppers bringing in the next round of wounded for she and the rest of the team to the aid station. This landed Priscilla for once in the mess hall actually able to sit quietly and take her meal. Just slop as it always was, still it was better than starving and she hadn't had something to eat in... well she couldn't recall when she last had some kind of nourishment other than water or her dear love: coffee.

With her placed at far corner of the mess hall table: elbow resting on the table; after able to get a heavenly shower in her hair bright hair almost dry was down just around her shoulders; and she is thoroughly captured by her old beat up copy of Alfred Lord Tennyson's collective works. As always she goes to her favorite. The one that always reminds her that there is beauty in a world where she's surrounded by death, war, and loneliness. _The Lady of Shalott_ always calms her no matter when she was reading it on the shore back home in Maine or right there in the mess hall. It was something she couldn't have gone thousands of miles away from home without.

It does a great deal to transport her away from reality. The days following Christmas had kept her on her feet what felt like non-stop. She should be in the ladies officers quarters sleeping as she so desperately needs rest, but she's here instead quietly reading, occasionally taking a bite of her, it may be stew today, and sipping on her coffee. 

-

Jefferson had had a helluva time finding the head nurse. Questioning some, he'd gathered a concerned, pity-filled eye at his neck, followed by a quick eye averted away from him before being pointed in the direction of the mess hall. If people were going to look at him like that with a bandage around his neck, he'd hate to think what the actual damage would garner. 

Didn't matter much. He wouldn't see these people again after that day anyway. He didn't give a damn what any of them thought except one anyway.

And once he had traversed through the snow - and how surprised was he to find that the record had enchanted the sky to actually drop snow on the ground after all - he saw a familiar flame of red hair immediately. 

He shook the loose snow from his fatigues jacket and ran a hand through his hair leaving it speckled with fast-melting snow flakes as he approached. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, his voice quiet. She was reading. Her hair down meant she wasn't on duty exactly, though they always were. But she looked beautiful sitting there relaxing, any chaos caused from the stress of the aid station at least temporarily relieved from her shoulders. "What are you reading?" And if she consented, he'd sit across from her. 

The atmosphere in the mess hall, while others chatted and carried on, was completely a different world than he'd been stuck in for nearly a week. It was refreshing, and he smiled at Priscilla from where he stood observing her for what he resolved would not be the last time.

-

With her head down, Priscilla pays no mind to the open and shut of the hall's door. People had been going to and fro the whole day. Whenever you could get a hot meal in you, you didn't waste it. Even if she was sure canned dog food was tastier and preferred this what was on her tray.

Though the sound of a familiar voice causes her to look up while maintaining her relaxed position. She had expected him to be up eventually and rebound quickly. Though she was sure once he realized she had ordered a different nurse to take charge of his care, he would want answers as to why. Like hell would she allow him or anyone else that satisfaction. It was a matter of pride with her.

Though turning him away wouldn't work either. "I see you're up and about," she nods giving him permission to sit with her and he does just that. Right across from her and he may smile her way but it doesn't change what those documents demanded.

When inquired of her literature, she doesn't normally like for people to know she has a fondness for verse. At least not here. Friendships were few and far between being the ranking and head nurse most resented her for the way she had no problem ordering the lower ranks around: male or female.

Her finger traces the the edge of the cover as she debates being snarky or her weary side showing through and settles on the latter, "Alfred Lord Tennyson. It's just some poems."

-

"Tennyson. Heh." The similarity in surnames couldn't be the only reason she was reading that specifically considering the way her fingers traced around the book; it was evident that it was something she cared very much about. 

Her mood was certainly different in the mess hall - as different as she appeared with her hair down. But her quiet demeanor and omission of a snappy comeback just to keep him in line was noted as well. He hadn't spoken to her in days. 

That told him she knew and he doubted very much the past two years of whatever they had meant little to her. She was alone and had been avoiding him. Something he knew well enough plenty of people in the service did as it was easier not to say goodbye. Create distance so it's easier after someone has left. He understood. It certainly wasn't easy to be the one leaving especially when there was so much still to do, especially when others were still in need, and especially since he didn't feel he was done here. 

He crossed his arms over the table, turning his eyes from observing her posture to the book and nodding at it. "What's your favorite?" Focusing on other things, at least for now, might help. 

One of his pals patted him on the back, interrupting just briefly to say they were glad he was up and made it. Thanking him, he shook his hand, and a tray of food, the service's best (note the sarcasm) set down before him and left, but the gesture was kind enough. 

Jefferson returned his attention back to Priscilla. A tentative expression on his face, dreading perhaps of what was to come with the new year. But he'd just focus on this time in her company and be at peace in the moment as he picked up his spoon.

-

Yeah, she couldn't escape the odds of having her favorite author sharing the same surname as herself. With her fingers curled around the cover of the book, ready to close it. That's not a part of her she's willingly shared with just anyone. This book is probably her most prized possession. Reckless it was to bring it along the voyage through the Pacific waters and in the middle of a war zone, it still came with her.

Her eyes follow this fellow jarhead gives Jefferson a pat on the back to. It's a quick encounter and she remains silent, till the man offers her a quick remark of ma'am she narrows her brows. "It's sir to you."

"The Lady of Shalott," surely she'll regret this, but once more he returned to her. Maybe it was the ounce of romanticism that resided in her. The part of her that did enjoy poetry and on occasion a sappy love ballad. So the fact he should be elated to be leaving and he chose to sit across from her causes Priscilla to swivel the book open and nearly on its spine till it faced him right side up. Her finger points to the title she had previously mentioned. 

Though before he could touch it, she quickly slides it back and returns it to its original place before her and her hand resting on the opened pages to keep her place.

"I could read some to you. I'm sure you could use some culture," she snarks as it was too good to pass up. If he was going to sit here, like any other time, he should expect a side of sarcasm with it.

-

He'd only had a moment to read the title within the text before she was spinning it around again with her hand covering it. Very protective, clearly. 

He took a bite of the food, wrinkled his nose at it as he glanced at what the hell he had just eaten and swallowed the lump uncomfortably. He would have spat it out but not in Priscilla's company. He may be a Marine, but he wasn't a savage despite her crack about him needing culture. 

Sliding the tray away, appetite lost, not that he'd had much of one since the accident anyway, he folded his arms on the table again. Smirking, he slid his eyes from the tray to her eyes. "Mm, and you're up for such an undertaking?"

Though he was sure he could listen to her all day, from explanations on how to make a perfect cup of joe, or that he tied off his stitches like a backwoods amateur, he'd listen to all of it. With a relaxed expression, he said, "I'd like that." Perhaps he'd be able to remember every word to save for later, until he'd see her again. And he would, he knew. 

-

"As a matter of fact, I am. And it's about time someone did," her eyes peer up at him momentarily before returning to the yellowed pages of the vintage book. The poem she'd been reading and rereading though she almost had every single word committed to memory by now.

Before she begins, Priscilla empties her cup of coffee in a gulp to wet her whistle, then sets the tin cup down on the wooden surface. She too abandons the sad excuse the mess hall calls food. It should be illegal to make this slop equal with actual nourishment.

As she starts with the first line it has a way to take her back in time when she was but a budding teenager awkward as ever. Finding this amongst the books lining the shelf. It was on a top shelf and had she not had a growth spurt she wouldn't have been able to see the title along the spine. It was the name that caught her attention first. That curiosity lead her to finding her favorite author.

_"There she weaves by night and day_  
A magic web with colours gay.  
She has heard a whisper say,  
A curse is on her if she stay  
To look down to Camelot.  
She knows not what the curse may be,  
And so she weaveth steadily,  
And little other care hath she,  
The Lady of Shalott. 

__And moving thro' a mirror clear_  
That hangs before her all the year,  
Shadows of the world appear.  
There she sees the highway near  
Winding down to Camelot:  
There the river eddy whirls,  
And there the surly village-churls,  
And the red cloaks of market girls,  
Pass onward from Shalott." 

No matter how hard she tries not to now, the faintest smile crosses her lips as she reads this. Having read it aloud many times when she was alone, this is the first time she bothered to read it to another. She had no issue dishing out orders, sometimes even at the top of her lungs if the situation had just cause of it. Though now as she reads just a tad self-conscious as she reaches the last passage.

_"Who is this? and what is here?_  
And in the lighted palace near  
Died the sound of royal cheer;  
And they cross'd themselves for fear,  
All the knights at Camelot:  
But Lancelot mused a little space;  
He said, "She has a lovely face;  
God in his mercy lend her **grace,**  
The Lady of Shalott." 

The bookmark to the side, Priscilla lays a hand over it and slips it to the edge of the table, then once in her grasp she lays it on the page before closing the cover. She keeps her gaze fixed upon the aged cover with its elaborate font not wanting to return to reality that she's stuck here thousands of miles from home. Not to mention that he would be returning.

She should be jealous. If it was anyone else she'd envy them with their million dollar wound giving them a ticket home. Not with him. A few days of separation between them made her grateful he wouldn't have to return to the choppers and the hazardous duty that came with it.

-

As she read, Jefferson became transfixed on her voice, the imagery produced by her words, of Camelot and knights, and this Lady referred to. Magic webs, a curse, stepping through a mirror. Hell, that was the clearest picture he'd had. He could almost feel the ripple that would echo along his skin as if stepping through water, but he could breathe. Beyond that mirror of water, he would find the steeples and belfries of royalty bright with color, brighter than anything he'd seen in Korea. It was as if he knew exactly what Camelot looked like from a memory long ago. He could almost smell the crisp, clean air. No pollutants, no gunfire. Only swordplay. And magic.

With his chin planted upon his opened palm, he blinked slowly, but his visual stimuli was not the sense at the forefront of his mind. His ears took it all in stimulating the colorful memories - no, not memories. Just imagery. 

Lancelot, tall and dark-skinned, his voice clear and deep as he spoke of the face of the Lady. "Grace," Jefferson spoke up, still musing over the memory/imagery. "Lend her grace." Yet, instead of a stranger inhabiting the Lady of Shallot, it was Priscilla. She would spin on her slippered heel, her hair pinned back and contained in a woven pearl netting, the Camelot sun would show the highlights in her red hair as turned to face Jefferson. 

He smiled at her as he looked across the table. Her hair was down just the same, but no pearl netting in it. Seeing that she was finished reading, he exhaled through his nose before speaking again, feeling calm and at peace. Things seemed to make more sense. Sitting across from Priscilla, the poem. This was real. Not the mess hall they sat in, or the far distant sounds of mortar rounds. 

She had woven a tale of magic around him and it was captivating enough to distract him, even if just temporarily, from what was to come the next day. And when he spoke, his voice was thick with the remnants of the calmness felt as if just waking from the dream. "You have a gift, Penny. For a moment, we were in Camelot." He wasn't the marine, he was just Jefferson. And she didn't outrank him, she was his woman, the one he'd sought across infinite lands. He could see an entire past and future that didn't align with what his mind told him was reality, but he could only wish for such simplicity. It wasn't the way the world worked.

-

Ignoring how he refers to her as Penny contrast to Tenny. It is however but more intimate to him using Priscilla. She let's this slide, not that he would listen to her anyway, so she saves her breath for something else.

The way he had this far off sound in his voice, made her curious as to what he saw compared what how the words always transported her. In her eyes she was back on the shore as a young girl where she was safe and free of worry, just free to be herself.

She tilts her head, eyes narrowed towards him deep in thought rather than scrutiny, "I like to think Camelot does exist. Maybe it's not a place on the map but a place where all our dreams are real. It's a whimsical age of knights and magic that we all deep down desire." Her faint smirk grows as she talks. "If you were so easily transported by a few verses, why can't magic exist? Maybe the problem isn't magic, but us? We all grow up and then abandon the hope that magical things still exist, still happen because the world is telling us that's wrong."

Matching him, she rests folded arms along the edge of the table, "Whenever someone tells me not to believe in it. That usually means it's real."

-

He observed how enlivened discussing the poem and the story - _not story but history,_ some inner voice spoke up - made her. It was amazing to behold. "The magic is there. Definitely." The way he watches her posture and animation, he sees the magic brought to life by being around her. "But this curse," referencing the verse, and shakes his head in attempting to explain, "is placed upon us if we look upon Camelot and the rich treasures of its lands. It's not meant for us anymore after we've grown up, is it? Instead, we're here in this rank, defiled country." He wipes a hand over his face, the stress of over two years weighing on his shoulders. 

But, he wasn't ready to jump back into the present land. "One day, we'll go back, step through the looking glass and into Camelot where we can run free along the richly painted land with its winding river. Visit Lancelot, and this Lady of Grace will be there too." He reached across the table to tap her hand covering the book before returning his hand folded over his other. "One of these days," he repeated again before closing his mouth with an amused grin as if he knew something she didn't. He'd see her again. 

-

He may not be a believer in the mystical unknown that everyone is forced to live in, but Priscilla can tell he's intrigued... possibly even swayed as he goes into further analysis of the poem in question.

Despite her usual instinct to slap his hand away, as she would with anyone else, she doesn't. It's brief and harmless and not entirely unwanted, though she leaves that unspoken.

"One of these days... is that a favorite catch phrase of yours?" She arches a brow as that's exactly what he'd said to her when she tricked him days ago. "But the curse is us growing up. Forgetting. Forgetting what the innocence and imagination we embraced as a child. We become so self absorbed and fearful that we forget the magic. That's the curse. Forgetting who we are and what was lost to us. Camelot exists if only in our minds, if only in these pages..." She shakes her head as it seems like a lost cause. At this point she's sounding certifiably insane. It's not that she cares, though being surrounded by death and suffering it would be difficult to believe. "Camelot is real. Call me crazy, but it's as real as you and me sitting hear while men are fighting and dying..." She draws back let her her hands fall to her lap. "War, death, all of it. That's our curse for forgetting."

-

He only grins cheekily as she questions that phrase again, not answering her. 

Again, he's drawn into her explanation. Forgetting the magic of childhood. "Sure. It's real," he agrees, but to him it exists solely in their imaginations. Being surrounded by death and war made it difficult to imagine much more, especially the fantastic.

The mention of those dying around them while they say in conversation again brought up his prior guilt in now being able or permitted to go back to work helping the cause. It made a man feel worthless. He hung his head nodding. Agreeing with her. "You're right. It's not crazy at all. We've witnessed first hand this curse."

Raising his head again, he leveled a somber look to Priscilla. "But at least we're in this together, right?" How different this day would have gone had he been alone. And now he was about to leave her.

\-----

Jefferson looks to Grace. "If this is too much... I'm sorry. I get caught up when I think of the past." And now with this future looming over him, he'd be plunged back into it, but into the jungles of Vietnam. Different climate, still monsoons, no Priscilla. It sounded like a curse indeed. Much more so without her companionship to keep him in check, verbally sassing at him the whole way. And leaving the product of their love behind. He pinched the bridge of his nose to keep a sudden swell of emotion at bay. Then, after taking a distracting gulp of the now lukewarm coffee, he took a steadying breath before he would continue.

-

Sitting as quiet as possible, her folded arms laying on the table as she was enthralled so with Dad's story. War, curses, magic... that last one was a bit difficult to believe. Especially with the way the news showed how easily man could turn on each other. 

When he breaks his train of thought to seek her feelings on the matter. Maybe to most of her other peers she was relatively sheltered, but she wasn't naive. 

Her brows pucker as he seems quite troubled over something. That something she was sure to be the telegram that left her uninformed. She would find out. One way or another she would. Grace is not about to let on that is her plan.

"I know this world isn't a fairy tale, Dad. Even if Mom's words are pretty convincing," taking on a far away look trying best to imagine her mother's expressive eyes from the few memories she still clung to. Most of all was the way Mom could tell a story. "Maybe Mom wanted you to take magic with you? To try and steal back what she says was lost?"

Grace leans back in her seat and her fingers wrap around the coffee unfortunately forgotten and losing its warmth. Analysis though something she loves and finds herself dabbling in quite often, wondering why Mom would share that with Dad. 

"Please don't stop," her eyes filled with a mix of desperation for more, for anything tied to her mother and curiosity. "And I thought you said you told her you were going to marry her?" she adds her impatience showing.

\-----

For just a glimmer Priscilla was sure she had him reeled in, but like most when they come of age so eager to shed their childish ways often discard the magic too. Alas in his arrogance he was ready to grow up and like so many others the curse was inevitable. Had she not found this treasure she too would have been lost in the curse.

His words we're in this together has her contemplating her next move. For two years it seemed like they were in this together. Then one accident changed everything. Nearly took him away from this world. In her diligence to work and fight that he wouldn't leave her, that's exactly what was happening, wasn't it? 

Her eyes fall to the book on the table, "Yeah, we were," she plays emphasis on their situation again. "I guess I should congratulate you. The million dollar wound, you're going home." 

She'd never forget the time he wandered into the tent asking about her sweet talking the coffee nor would she meeting him on each delivery of the next batch of wounded. On occasion, she even requested his assistance, not without some sassing his way naturally, when they were running low on resources and required an extra hand. It was something she'd miss once he's bound for Tokyo, then onward to the States.

Lifting a hand from her lap, she lays it upon the cover and slides it his way, "Do me a favor, Buchanan. Try and remember. This might just help you."

-

Jefferson winked at Grace. She was listening well. Taking a deep breath, he continued as he looked down into the blackness of the coffee, his reflection peering back at him.

\--  
She has slid her book across the table towards him. His eyes watch her carefully, brows raised in surprise. How could she give this to him? 

He shook his head at Priscilla all the while keeping his eyes on her. Carefully, he spoke. "Doesn't feel like a million bucks. What am I going back to? I have no living relatives, no one's waiting for me there, I'd rather be here. With you." She could get pissed but she'd get over it. She should know how he feels before he leaves or he'd never get the chance to say it. 

After such a liberty taken, he dared to look at the precious offering of her magical source slid across the table, her hand still upon it. Shifting his mouth, should he verbalize a decline? He couldn't. While he'd be taking it away from her, it proposed a certain possibility, and he wanted to pursue it. 

So, he inhaled through his nose, placed his hand over hers, even in public, he dared to do so. He was getting discharged anyway so he was practically already a civilian. "I will guard it with my life, but only temporarily." His hand turned hers over facing upright over the book while his other hand pulled something from his pocket and met her opened hand as well. "You'll need to find me to get it back. In exchange, you can bring this back to me." His fingers cupped hers around what would appear to be not much more than a one inch rock, dark in some places, red and shining through the darkness in others. "It's a raw ruby. I found on Christmas morning... before..." He motioned carelessly towards his bandaged neck.

He would only cup her hand as long as she allowed it. "Bring that back to me. I'll finish polishing it. And then I'm going to marry you." A trace of his old arrogance would shine through the way he looks at her. It's a sure determination he knows will happen. "In Camelot if you prefer."

-

She watches him carefully as well. Observing him as she had for two years. At first what was to criticize and then turned to something far more dear and something she wasn't ready to admit. For her actions always spoke louder than words. This gesture of offering her greatest possession, him needing to remember, to believe again was if anything a sign that she felt more than she ever allowed herself to say. 

Rather stoic in her demeanor as he covers her hand with his own, she doesn't spurn it as she should given the circumstance. Though her eyes do flit down briefly to his touch before meeting his gaze as he explains further. Unlike most men, he's always had a touch of gentility in him. It shows through now as it had since she'd met him as he rotates her wrist till her hand forms a cup. With a knitted brow and tilted head, her eyes follow him as he fishes for something only to reveal that it is rough stone placed lovingly in the palm of her hand.

Using her thumb to brush over the stone's surface as she quietly listens to his declaration. Her hand still in his as she has no need or want to swat him away as she certainly would with anyone else.

"Is that so?" she narrows her eyes at him quite amused and just trace of a smirk at the corner of her mouth. "I guess you better hurry and remember then." Forming a light fist around the stone, yet not trying to remove her hand still in his. "Then once you do, try and ask me again properly."

-

She didn't decline him. Merely offered him an opportunity in return, even if it was laced with her usual sass. Her clinched fist around the stone solidified the future, in his eyes. He knew exactly in that moment what he would do when he got home. Yet home would be where ever she was, so he would build it for her. He'd known that she was home for some time already, but hadn't recognized it until this moment watching her after she gave him her most prized possession and not turning down prospective future proposals. 

He laughed, the sound nearly unfamiliar to his own ears. When had he last laughed, especially in this hellish place? She had provoked it which further convinced him she was the one. "I'll remember," he nodded, joviality thick in his expression and voice. "And I will." He squeezed her hand in his as his eyes roamed her face to commit everything to memory. 

\--

Clearing his throat, Jefferson glanced up from the coffee to Grace. "I wanted to kiss her right there in the mess hall, but there were marines there. While I wouldn't have gotten any trouble over it, she certainly would have from the other men. She had to stay behind, for a little while anyway. Women in the service didn't have it easy. They still don't."

He pushed the chair back and strolled over to one of the wall shelves where a few treasured things had been stored up high. Items that were meant to be observed as treasure. "Here it is. Her book." He grabbed the spine with care, his eyes roaming the cover briefly, his fingers spread across the cover as if he could touch Priscilla through time. He glanced back up to Grace and brought it to her setting it down on the table. The bookmark was set on The Lady of Shalott and was flipped open to produce proof that the story was real, pointing a finger at the title just as Priscilla had done for him. But he doesn't turn it away from her, but leaves it open facing her.

"She wanted me to believe the impossible. That fairy tales were real, that this wasn't." He waved at their surroundings. "Reading that poem, it's like getting drawn right into the story. It's like," his eyes turned upwards as took his seat again. "I've really been there. With her. And I suppose you could say that I have. She's a Lady of Camelot, a thief, and she stole your old dad's heart." He grinned at Grace across from the table as if conspiratorially. "In fact, this is the inspiration for your name." He pointed his finger at the end of the passage.

The clock was nearing 7:30 am and if he kept reminiscing and droning on to her, she'd be late to school. "It's about time to leave, sweetheart," he reminded. They both needed to get dressed so he could drive her to school.

-

A sigh exhaled as the teenager had hoped that wouldn't be the end of the story. It was a beautiful tale. Better than anyone could find in a novel or on the silver screen during a trip to the cinema. Though all that. Two years and his declaration of love and no kiss. If that's not when such a moment happened, she would request the story soon of how and when that happened.

Grace's eyes followed Dad as he continued to tie up the story. He leaves the table and she turns in her chair to sit sideways as he goes to the shelf and plucks a brown book from the top shelf. Her eyes widen when he declares it is her book. She almost jumps out of her seat eager to take a peek at the treasure piece of their little family's history.

Twisting around in her seat as Dad places it before her. Now that she had a better view of the cover, it is understatedly beautiful. She even dares to brush her fingertips along the rim of the cover wondering how many times Mom had opened this copy. Held it in her hands. Kept it safe when living in the middle of war. She pulls back her hand when Dad opens it for her flipping to the bookmarked poem, _"The Lady of Shalott,"_ she murmurs letting her fingers fan over the pages trying to picture both her parents reading this particular verse.

Her eyes drift up from the words having only gotten past the first sentence to see how happy just the memory this book holds makes him. It is connected to the woman they both cherish to this day. Without her what they have now wouldn't be possible.

His arm reaches to pinpoint and her eyes follow it till she reads _lend her **grace.**_ Gasping at this revelation. She makes a mental note to ask which one had decided upon this.

Closing the cover of the book, Mom's marker still holding the poem's place. "Why does it have to be a school day?" she slumps back into her seat wrinkling her nose. "I'd much rather listen to your stories." She leans forward against resting her elbows on the table and cradling her chin in her hands, "You have to tell me about when you and mom saw each other again. Or when you proposed...however many times it took. Please?" She draws out the last word hoping to sway him if she asks sweetly enough. 

-

Jefferson mulled over Grace's whine, adorable little stink she is, too, because she could almost get away with it. "That's not going to get you out of school today, young lady," and he waggled a finger at her, but sighed as he sat back down. "Five more minutes," and he winked.


	3. Camelot

_January 1, 1953_

It was his last night at the camp. He couldn't stay at the aid station any longer and he had to pack up his temporary living space, or at least the last one he'd had before the accident. It was just a cot, being that he had some rank and as a pilot, one of the small perks he was allotted. He had a trunk with uniforms, socks, boots, the like in it, and he had cleaned himself up, removed the thick bandages from his neck to be replaced with a single layer of gauze and an OD green scarf to stave off the chill, and changed clothes before attempting sleep.

The book gifted to him felt heavy in his hands as he sat on the cot for the final time. He'd gotten barely any sleep that final night, but the book had stayed tucked in his jacket over his undershirt through the night. He couldn't set it down for long. It made him too aware of the fact that he was leaving everything he'd known for the past 2 years. He'd lived and nearly died with these people, saved lives and farewelled friends into finality. He'd grown into the man he'd become there as well since he had lied about his age to join the marines. He'd only been 17 when he went through boot camp, but he had to go. His family was gone. He had no reason to stay in Texas when a war was raging, and pilots needed so desperately. But now, at 20 and some change, he felt much older than the boy he'd been before. War and death, especially his own being a near miss, had a way of changing a person. He could even see the effect on Priscilla with her high walls and larger than life sass to keep people from getting too close. He understood it. 

That was why leaving would be so difficult. Leaving her behind with those high walls protecting her in a hostile place... He'd gone and fallen in love and couldn't exactly tell her so, even if he'd informed her he was going to spend the rest of his life with her. Leaving her in a war zone felt wrong, but there was nothing he could do about it. 

He was to report to the 'copter that would evacuate him from the mountain so he could board a plane to Tokyo and off to the states again. But before he dared report in, he had to look in on Priscilla one more time. The precious book was slipped into a front pocket of his uniform jacket, the scarf tucked, and boots cinched tight, he was off to the aid station. 

Priscilla was there. Jefferson lingered at the entrance for a moment hoping he would catch her eye. When she looked his way, he raised a hand as if to wave goodbye, his expression pensive in restraint. He wouldn't be entering the tent again.

-

Waiting till after school, or even on the way to school would have sufficed for Grace, but Dad allowing her five more minutes of nostalgia. It was wonderful enough that she got one story let alone two in the course of their morning coffee... she lets her hands drop to fold on the table top and listens intently.

\-----

Life goes on. With men coming and going. Priscilla keeps her ears tuned to the sound of the next wave of choppers to land. If they were lucky a radio would send them news estimating arrival be it through code in case they were overheard.

The medical unit had been lucky not to have received casualties so far. Not for the lack of trying in time of war. She knew this lull would be short lived. For once it would look as though she may actually have time to get more than an hour or two hear or there for rest. But to actually step foot into her quarters and actually crawl into her cot and sleep. Sleep sounded like heaven at the moment.

Rotating her wrist she pulls back the cuff of her jacket's sleeve and pushes up the hem of her gloves she'd cut the fingers off of to the point now they frayed for a glimpse at the wristwatch beneath it all. It is just after 0300 hours. She brings a hand up to wipe her weary eyes, blinking to at least stay awake long enough not to fall down between here and that cot calling to her.

Priscilla turns around to find her assistant nurse checking on the once bloodied up marine who had come in. Under the blood was severe burns, enough that he would be soon sent to Tokyo.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she doesn't even want to think of Tokyo at this point, "If I'm needed I'll be in my quarters," she raises her index to point directly at the woman keeping her voice stern and low. "Don't bother disturbing me either. I'll hear the helicopters if and when they come."

Without another word spoken, Priscilla walks up the aisle of beds till she reaches the entrance of the aid station. Shivering as she's greeted with the bitter winter air. She almost doesn't notice that she isn't alone and sucks in a deep breath, "Damnit, Buchanan. What're you trying to do? Give me a heart attack?"

-

He grinned a sly one tilting up a corner of his mouth at her reaction. Leaning towards her just enough to speak lowly so he wouldn't be overheard by those in the tent, he answered her accusation. "If I didn't get your heart racing, then I s'pose I'm doing something wrong, hm?"

His grin turned cheeky as he waved her to follow him away from the tent entrance. Every few seconds, the wandering search light would reflect a decent amount of light so that he wouldn't trip on a guideline for the tent's support system. Thinking over that, he reached back to grasp her hand in his so she wouldn't either. And maybe he simply wanted to hold her hand. 

The dark, morning night was cold and crisp. Snow covered the ground in thick white patches, only the barest of dirt peeking through in the daytime, but at night, it's presence was only known by the crunch beneath their feet. Sneaking around like this felt like they were two thieves in the night. "...Sneaking away from the castle as we steal away a treasure of Camelot right under King Arthur's nose," he muttered under his breath finishing his thought aloud. He'd really given Priscilla's requirement some thought and he wanted her to know that, too.

But one step at a time for now. Not too far from the tent opening, but far enough to be out of sight of prying eyes, he stopped and pointed up. There was a break in the trees that provided a direct view of the stars. "With as damned cold as it is, too cold to snow even, Arcturus is just there. King Arthur made it into the sky." He would attempt to guide her into stranding just beside him so she could see the star and constellation exactly where he saw it, his other hand across her back and holding her opposite shoulder. It was chilly out after all. After a brief moment, he looked to Priscilla, the nostalgia of their time soon ebbing clear on his face. She knew he was leaving that morning, no need to say it aloud. But it wasn't the end for them. "I've got your book." He tapped his chest over the pocket which provided a _thump_ noise as proof. "One of these days, Penny." He grinned.

-

Well, she'll let him have that one. She did give him a good set up and at least he could be witty unlike the rest who were dull as paste. Still didn't stop Priscilla from rolling her eyes at his smart aleck retort.

Heaving a sigh, her breath visible in the frozen air, "Now what?" is muttered as she steps between the support ropes keeping the canvas tent upright and the men inside sheltered. She knew these grounds, had them memorized. Probably could even navigate this blindfolded so her feet knew when to step up and avoid the a tent peg so not to end up stumbling disastrously. Feeling his hand wrap around hers, she allows that as it is a pretty innocent gesture.

Boots crunching over the ground frozen ground and crispy patches of snow. It couldn't even be beautiful in winter. No. Not even a full blanket of snow. Just sparse patches to taunt the foreigners in this land. Her attention diverted from her disappointment in the Korean winter season at the mention of Camelot once more. It does put a faint smile on her lips. Vividly she can picture escaping through the halls. Grandeur of white marble pillars and tiled floors. Their shoes are pounding against as they make their get away. Not without a bit of mischievous laughter between them as they get out just in the nick of time and right under the ostentatious king's nose. To her it's more than a dream, it's reality.

They hadn't ventured too far from the aid station, she can still hear the soft sounds from within the canvas, hoping they are quiet enough that their voices don't carry through into the station. That is quickly ignored though as he guides her beside him. Her eyes though tired and in need of rest, follow where he points, head tilting back so to best see the constellation in the heavens above. "Yeah, he would get up there, the show off," she snarks, though while her eyes are still searching the sky, "Arcturus means something like guardian."

It's only at the mention of your book that her eyes lower to where his hand lay. She pivots on her toe of her boot to face him, close enough to stick her finger and poke the book that is under the fabric. "You know it's rude to keep saying it's mine when I specifically gave it to you." Her hand then reaches up to grip the excess fabric of the military issued wool scarf around his neck and seeing as he is quite a bit taller than her, gently pulling him down to her level. Lingering for a moment as she had when tricking him days ago, but after two years of making him wait she brings her lips to his for a long overdue kiss. She loosens her grip around the scarf only to inch up and slip her cold fingers around the back of his neck just under the knit wool.

-

Guardian sounds about right what with the way he feels with that book over his heart. Not Arthur, however, but Priscilla herself. She had saved his life after all. 

He didn't see the book as his. Not truly. It had Priscilla all over it as if she would be a constant companion as long as the book was in his possession, even when they were half a world apart. He shook his head. "What's mine is yours," he mumbled, but was quickly shut up by her hand trailing up to the scarf and pulling him down towards her. 

He smiled curiously as her fingers wove past the fabric and gripped his neck, the uninjured side. And when her lips met his, he knew he was doing something right after all. Maybe he wasn't the only one whose heart was racing. He drew his arm from her shoulder to her waist to pull her against him. His other hand in her hair, his lips parting, tasting hers. What he'd been missing and waiting for in the years built up to this. She loved him too, he was sure, for Priscilla to lower her walls enough to initiate this, he'd count himself aligned with the stars.

\------

Jefferson blinked at Grace. No, he wouldn't tell her about the kiss. Too graphic for a fourteen year old in his opinion. Though his cheeks pinkened, in memory, he waved at Grace. "Anyway, she kissed me first. Time to get ready for school. Let's go!"

He stood from the chair, still smiling rather meekly waiting for her to get moving.

-

Grace slumps back into her seat across from Dad as he wraps up a second story centered around he and Mom. Stifling a snicker at the color in his face. It was nice to know after all these years and even if they'd lost Mom far too soon, she could still cause such a reaction. 

She pushes herself up out of her seat, taking the book in her hands and hugging it to her chest while she reluctantly moves through the hall and towards the bottom of the stairs, "Can I keep this? Or at least hold onto it for a while?" 

-

Following after Grace towards the stairs, he patted her shoulder. “Of course, Sweetheart. I think you’re old enough to take care of it. It’s yours, too.” He pulled Grace into a brief hug, thankful for what Priscilla had given him. Though their time had been far too short, he and Priscilla would live forever through Grace. 

He checked his wristwatch as he released her. “Okay, we have twenty minutes until we need to be on the road! Race you!” He grinned and would head for the stairs when she would. 

And once in his room with the door shut, he spoke to Priscilla as if she were listening. “Penny? You’d be so proud of Grace. She’s a little You. Not so little anymore. She’s growing up way too fast. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to leave her, Penny. This is harder than when I left you. She’s a kid. What if she thinks I’m abandoning her? I need help. I wish you were here. I love you.” Spoken as if a prayer, he steeled himself against what he’d have to tell Grace soon. But not that day. The day was filled with happy memories of the past. He couldn’t destroy the mood with a sad future.

He stepped into his closet and changed out of his robe and pajamas and into his usual button up collared shirt, waistcoat, and trousers. He fiddled with a scarf in his hands as he looked at the trace amounts of olive green flecks that were woven through the dark purple material. He couldn’t seem to get away from olive green, another reminder of the past. He rarely looked at the scar any longer, but after rehashing the story to Grace, he glanced up at his reflection in the floor length mirror to see the pale pink line that traced just under his adam’s apple clear across his throat. Had that accident not occurred, he would have stayed in Korea with Priscilla and seen through its end until July of ‘53. Just seven more months. But then again, he wouldn’t have Grace either, or at least she would be younger now. Funny, how things worked out. He’d have no regrets. It had been his fate, and he wouldn't have changed a thing he had done if he could.

\-----

After he’d gotten to Korea, transport home seemed to come to a sudden halt. All aircraft and ships were needed locally except for a very few that transported more seriously injured soldiers. Since his injury was rather less life threatening than others, he’d have to wait for a ship that had room for him. They wouldn’t be shipping him home for at least a month, he’d been told. One month was beginning to look like two and Jefferson was frustrated. If he was well enough to stay in Tokyo, he was well enough to have stayed in Korea! ‘Hurry up and wait,’ seemed like the military’s motto. He could have been doing so much more in Korea, at the aid station, in the forest. Yet there he was sitting around waiting in a US holding station in Tokyo. 

He was permitted to write a letter home if he wanted to. But there was no one back home to write to. He struck up a conversation with the right person that was headed back to the forest, so he bribed them with an exchange of delivery of a letter back to the states. He wrote to Priscilla. He’d have to be careful what he wrote, of course, or the letter would never make it to her. Or it’d just be so full of redact, he may as well not bother.

_LT Tennyson, P,  
Aid Station 2148-12_

_20 January 53_

_Writing to let you know I am still alive and safe. No fresh wounds from stupidity. I keep my promises. Still have not made it home. Cannot step through the mirror for at least four weeks. Hope all is safe. When you look at Arcturus, you have company._

_Buchanan, J.  
WO1_

-

With the book in her arms, Grace jogs up the stairs and makes haste to her bedroom. Before going to her school's uniform, she crosses the room and carefully sets it on top of her nightstand so to keep it near while she slept. Hoping in by doing so it would be like keeping Mom close by. It was even tempting to slip it into her school bag, but the need to preserve it as it was she resisted.

Quickly she goes through the motions of dressing in her white polo, tartan skirt, knee highs and cardigan to keep her arms warm. Though as of late she'd been admiring the bohemian aesthetics that had a surge in popularity.

Most wouldn't be allowed in her strict dress code at school, but she was able to get away with sneaking some into her look. Loose side braids being her favorite as well as a peace sign bracelet she acquired that could be worn discreetly under the hem of her cardigan. Her peasant blouses flowing skirts all had to be for home. No sooner did she walk through the door every day after school, the first thing she did was ditch the uniform for her preferred style.

\------

Almost four years now since she had received leave and the first time in years since she'd seen the island of Japan. The helicopter had transported her there during the night and now she sits in the passenger side of a jeep while a non-com served as her driver. Her eyes are on a letter received just a few days ago, though Priscilla refused to reply to it.

"We're here, sir..."

Priscilla looks up from the sheet of paper, having to remind herself she isn't in Korea anymore, or at least for a few days. With a quick thank you to the soldier behind the wheel, she can't just rush out as she would in regulation fatigues. In her brown dress uniform of an Ike style jacket and a-line skirt under her coat instead of the usual. Having to wear heels and stockings compared to the freedom of a good pair of leather boots and thick wool socks was beyond annoying.

Finding him was easy enough, ignoring the insolent men on her way through the aid station was not. Approaching his bed near the end of the room, she waves the letter before him, “Did you really think I’d reply to one of your letters, Buchanan?”

-

After sending the letter to Priscilla, Jefferson had spent another dull day of doing nothing but laying around at an aid station in wait for some miracle that another ship would be made available. But none were. His injuries that had been so life-threatening now were not serious enough to allow him to work or go home. He was told to rest.

A series of invectives were uttered under his breath at such demands. He was made to rest in an aid station, his line of work as it had been for over two years, and now he could do nothing? He certainly was not helpless even if his neck wound was still on the mend.

During the night, he would find time to assist in treatments or hand out first aid packages to those seeking assistance. For those heading to Korea, he'd send extra supplies he could find and he knew they would need. He'd always been good at finding things that were highly sought after and being in Tokyo was no different. It was just a different land with the same old things.

His stitches had been removed a couple of weeks after arriving in Tokyo and that was the first time he'd caught a glance at the wound. It was a nasty scar, angry and red all the way around, but it was healing. Unfortunately, it was quite an eye-catcher. And gathering attention on it and the questions that immediately began regarding it were not those that Jefferson wanted to answer. It made him feel self-conscious as he had made a stupid decision which earned him such a mark. So, in order to keep air flow on the wound for proper healing, he was not permitted to bandage it any longer; he knew this. But he did keep a scarf loosely tied around his neck. Indoors or outdoors, he could blame it on a constant chill. So long as it kept eyes on his face and not his neck, he didn't care.

The women were the worst of the inquisition. Pitying remarks and questions over whether he had someone to take care of him when he got home were asked. He was young, sure, but he had been taking care of himself since he was 16 years old. His responses were short and clipped. It did nothing to ward off the unwanted attention. 

So while he could help out when the senior medical staff was off duty, he would have to be content to remain in the aid station bed during the day when he was not permitted to do more than recuperate. He was left the hell alone there as well.

That was until a feminine voice called his name from behind himself where he laid on his side facing a wall thumbing through the book lost in a distant world of poetry. He snapped out of the fog and back to the present as he glanced over his shoulder expecting to see another one of those bothersome busy bodies. He first saw the stocking-covered legs, the skirt, and his eyes continued to travel up, his jaw sagging as he noticed a familiar shade of red hair. She held a letter out towards him and he merely stared dumbly rolling on to his back. "Penny? Am I dreaming?" He sat up then and checked his scarf to be sure it was on straight as he stood to reach tentatively out to cup her face with one hand. To hell with anyone watching. All that was in the room then was himself and her. "Why are you here?" His voice indicated the disbelief he had in seeing here there.

-

The smirk on her plain lips is quickly replace with a wide grin revealing her pearly (and a little crooked) whites. She was sure he had to be out of his element, but it was good to see him still with the book in hand. Though compared to the other nurses around, other than her bright hair, she was quite bland having been makeup free for years now she had since fallen out of habit of using simple things as lipstick and rouge. 

Though it doesn't seem to bother him in the slightest as he quickly gets to his feet and reaches out to touch her for fear she was a mirage. Being this close with him, even if he was on his way to be officially discharged and shipped home, it was still reckless if they were seen. 

"I came all the way from Korea to see you and that's how you're gonna greet me?" reaching up with a gloved hand to teasingly poke him in the chest, though her grin never wavers. Maybe it's throwing caution to the wind, but she takes a step forward lowering her hand to slip her arms around him in an embrace. Tilting her head to the side as she looks up to him, even in her heels he's still a tad taller than she is, "If you're still in doubt, there's a way you could test and see if I'm an angel in your dreams or the real McCoy."

-

Jefferson blinked at Priscilla's snark. "Oh, I have no doubt any longer. Always got to keep me in check." He smirked, glanced down to her lips just briefly. She hadn't backed away from his hand. She'd traveled all the way to Tokyo, left a war zone for him! Even stepped up and held him in return. 

The smirk shifted into a grin. He was elated to see her there. A memo of all things, and there she was! "But, I'm not going to say no to an opportunity." Still grinning, he dipped his head just enough to reach her lips, just a taste at first. His hand cupping her cheek, and his other finding her waist. 

Even still, he could hardly believe this was real. Maybe they were both in the dream. What would it matter if he kissed her senseless in an aid station? "Marry me, Penny," he mumbled against her lips, his eyes opening just enough to see her reaction. 

His hand moved from her cheek to her hair, teasing her with kisses peppered along her cheek until he pulled her against him as he'd done under the stars back on the mountain. He inhaled sharply as he embraced her glancing up at the canopy overhead thanking whatever deity saw fit to grant him to live long enough to have found someone like Priscilla. 

"I don't deserve a woman of your class, but I'd do everything in my ability to make you happy." Jefferson pulled back from the embrace just enough to see her, to show her the adoration in his eyes as he proclaimed his promises to her. "We can go anywhere in the world you'd like. See anything, do anything. You name it, and it's yours. Marry me. I've loved you for years and will for the rest of my days." He began whispering as he pecked a kiss in between each, "Marry me," his grin widening as he kept repeating it to her ear, her neck, her shoulder, until she would answer him.

-

Priscilla feels herself smirking against his lips as he finally greets her with a kiss. About time. Even in her heels she rises up on tip toe to reach him better. A month having passed and truth be told he wasn't the only one who probably was awaiting the second time the pair would share a kiss. Something she wasn't liberal with either. Whether it was back home in Storybrooke or here in a war zone, she kept up her walls and somehow Jefferson had managed to get through. That didn't mean she would make it easy on him, not once did it deter him.

Everyone else in the station is forgotten, just as it was when they were together under Arcturus. How he made her forget that a war was going on around them was beyond her. Just like the way the words of Tennyson could transport her between realms, it did feel as though they'd arrived to Camelot instead of standing in the middle of an aid station.

The words Marry me, Penny reach her ears, her brown eyes flutter open and full of surprise. Not even able to suppress the light chuckle, nor a smile widening as he draws her closer peppering kisses against her cheek, not once trying to stop him. He's the only one she could trust to share something she held as precious as her heart with. And the way he looked at her as though she was his world, promising her the world, when it was just simple, she had all she wanted right there. The world nearly took him away from her, she'd be content to just settle down wherever they could call home so long as there was the promise they'd both be safe.

"Jefferson," saying his given name with a laugh for the first time hoping it may get his attention. It had always been his name or rank up till now. "I love you too, if you hadn't already figured that out," she slips her arms still encircling him in a hug till her hands rest upon his shoulders. Tilting her head to look up at him with as much love as she can convey through her eyes and hopefully her words as this is still new to her, he still needs to know. "I didn't think I could be this happy. You're kinda responsible for that."

She slowly steps out of his arms, only to reach for his hand, tugging on him to follow, "So c'mon. I've kept you waiting for two years already."

-

His first name spoken on her lips was something new to behold. He hadn't realized before how much he needed to hear that. It seemed more real than name and rank, neither of which were who he was. 

She loves him, too. He may have lost his job, lost the world in which he had been completely immersed in for two years, but hearing confirmation that his feelings were reciprocated by the only one that made a war zone worth remaining in, how could life possibly become better than that moment? He hoped by her accepting his proposal. 

There was satisfaction in helping others, saving lives, making a difference, but his time had concluded. Now he had a future for two to plan if she would have him, if she would share his dream.

As Priscilla pulled his hand, he called out suddenly, "Wait!" and reached back to the cot to grab the book and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He hadn't let it out of his sight yet and he wasn't about to do so now. 

He followed along out of the aid station. Had that been an agreement? With Priscilla, he could never be certain of her feelings on anything. She kept him guessing and in that, she was part of the adventure. For the arrogant, carefree pilot, she kept him chasing and on his toes. And so as he followed, he squeezed her hand grinning at her. "I knew you loved me, too. You're crazy about me." Oh, he knew he was asking for it, but she had chased after him finally, something he never would have expected, but was counting his lucky stars that she had.

\------

Jefferson jogged down the stairs and snatched his key ring off the peg by the door. "Grace! Two minutes! I'll get the car warmed up!" He slipped out the door and headed for the car, thoughts of Tokyo and Priscilla still running through his mind. A faint smile pulled at his lips. 

Grace had seemed grateful in receiving her mother's book. The awe witnessed in her eyes made him glad he and Priscilla had taken the care in preserving it over the years. It had kept Priscilla alive over the years. "I miss you, Penny," he mumbled as he stuck the keys in the ignition and adjusted the heater. The scarf was doing little to keep the autumn chill from crawling down his neck. 

-

Priscilla stops in her tracks when he reacts with a sudden wait. Moving with him as he goes to reach for something. Craning to see what that might be its... the book. He had his nose stuck in it when she arrived and it was satisfying to know he was cherishing it too. A link to the truth, a tool to break through the facade and deceitful masquerade the world forces upon them. She could tell even if it was just part of her conditions, he was making an effort to remember.

The two of them still hand in hand while navigating the aid hospital, she disregards being on the receiving end of disapproving looks given her position. Feeling the gentle squeeze on her hand as well as his arrogant words. 

Her brow twitches as she shakes her head, "I'm most definitely not sane. And I wonder if I still have time to visit Carry Grant instead," tilting her head as they exit the building she watches him through a thoughtful gaze, "You think?" A little teasing was in order to take the heat off her own actions. Giving his arm another tug, though she makes sure to pull him down enough to give him a peck on the cheek, "C'mon, you have one chance to marry me. Otherwise I'm going to find Mr. Grant."

\--

"Coming!" Grace calls out as she slings the strap of her bag across her body, she rushes to the bedroom door. Though one last glance at the book on her nightstand. It's tempting. Very, very, tempting to bring it along. Though she views this precious book as their family relic that keeps a piece of Mom still alive with them.

Hearing the front door shut, she snaps back into reality. This is also her chance, probably her only chance to see what had been delivered so rudely by Western Union. It'll make her late, but she has to see it.

Grace dashes out of her bedroom, leaving her door open and runs down the stairs, jumping to the main floor once she's reached the third from the bottom, then its onto the kitchen.

No sign of Dad means he's out in the car and even if she looks over it quickly, it's better than not knowing. So as soon as she reaches the refrigerator, a hand gropes the top to find the document and exclaims an Aha! when having found it. Though as soon as her eyes scan the page her shoulders deflate as her lips move while she tries to speed read the document. Most of the military technical jargon goes over her head, but one thing is clear. They want to take Dad away from her.

"No," she murmurs as her hands softly fold it back and places it where she found it atop the refrigerator.

Numbly her feet take her away from the kitchen and through the hall till she reaches the foyer. As she retrieves her coat and knitted cap before exiting the door, she tries to fix her lips into a pleasant smile so not let on she knows why he was momentarily downcast before the bit of reminiscing.

After locking up the door, she jogs down the steps and rushes to the passenger side, opening the door and hopping in, "Sorry, I took so long."

-

The car's heater had finally dissipated the remainder of the chill from within and he could relax once Grace was seated beside him. "I was worried my stories might've been too long-winded this morning." He turned a smile her way only to notice she wasn't smiling like she had when she had first laid eyes on the book. "Too much for this early in the morning?" He shifted the car into drive and slowly took the car onto the road. The tall evergreens that surrounded the road gave the impression that they lived deep in the forest. It was something he'd thought Priscilla would enjoy when he was on the hunt for land. It was why he'd decided to have the house built there instead of in town.

\--

Perhaps she thought herself lacking sanity for heading all the way to Tokyo to see him, but one thing was for certain. Priscilla was giving Jefferson one and only one chance to marry her and this was it! 

He squeezed her hand as they continued along. "No, I don't think. I know. Mister Cary Grant is a womanizer and deserves you far less than I do." While his tone may have sounded arrogant, he meant it. Yes, she was teasing, but she needed to know he was serious about the future he saw with her. While anyone else's eyes they passed had been on them, all Jefferson saw was Priscilla. She was really there! 

His arm pulled protectively around her waist again as they headed towards one of the buildings that officed the JAG officers, the lawyers, and any other office related stuff Jefferson had never paid much attention to until the past couple of weeks. 

His eagerness only grew as he pulled the doors open to escort Priscilla in. The plans and preparations he'd been making would come together so much better now that a future would be more certain. "I've spent these weeks planning, Penny. I'm going to sell the flight school that was left to me when my parents died. I talked to JAG about it. My parents' lawyer back home, Mister Gold, has already been contacted. Then, I'm going to buy some land and build you a home. Anything you want, Penny, and it's yours." 

Truth be told, he didn't give a damn about that flight school anymore. It had educated him, taught him to fly, and provided him the ability to commission into the Marines. Without it, he would never have met Priscilla. But he was done with it now. Had no intention of teaching, which was his right as a qualified pilot and sole owner, but he wouldn't have it. That was all out of the past now. Now, its purpose would be to provide the two of them with a huge sale that would support them for decades to come, according to the lawyer back in Texas.

Reaching the door to the Magistrate's office, Jefferson glanced at the plywood door before turning back to Priscilla to grip her other hand, a crooked smile on his face. "Ready to make the jump?"

-

Turning to face Dad with a better attempt at a genuine smile his way, it still doesn't reach her brown eyes. Despite their circumstances of this news looming over them like an ominous cloud, she still has him here. It was enough to almost ask to stay home from school today. Her stomach doing flip flops was cause enough to say she felt under the weather.

Shaking her head as she settles into the seat that was warm and cozy on such a day, "No, I love your stories about you and Mom. I guess it just makes me miss her more."

Which was not entirely untrue. Though she longed for each and every detail of Mom, every story, every antic, even stories that may be seen as dull, she wanted them all. Now she had the book that was a tool in bringing her parents together permanently.

"Dad, am I much like her? She seemed so fearless. I dunno how she managed that in Korea."

-

Of course she had only meant it as a way to razz him a little, but this isn't the first time he's made his sentiment known that he isn't deserving of her, of this, of them. He is the best man she's known, or else she wouldn't be ready to marry him in the here and now. If anyone isn't deserving, certainly she's the one undeserving. Refusing to budge even an inch in the course of two years while he remained faithful to her without any formal attachment.

"Hey," Priscilla says softly, shaking her head as she has to put an end to this. Removing her hands from his to cupping his jaw, "Don't put me on a pedestal, Jefferson. As far as I'm concerned we're equal. I need you to know that too. And yeah, from the female perspective men for the most part are womanizers," her head moves slowly from left to right, eyes still planted on him. "But not you. Do you know how rare that is for a woman to find?"

Her hands slip down to the scarf around his neck. A way to conceal the scar having formed as the would healed. He may wish to hide it, but to her it was a reminder of the miracle that saved him. It doesn't surprise her to hear he's been proactive. On some level he had to know she would say yes to his proposal.

"And I don't need anything fancy, you know me. I slept whenever I could in a makeshift officer's tent that was lucky enough to have a mosquito net," she steps closer to him given his arm is around her waist. If they're to spend the rest of who knows how long this war would last apart, she wanted to enjoy the feeling of being in his arms if she'd have to do without. "All I need is you. That's it."

-

"Me too, Sweetheart," Jefferson agreed as he glanced Grace's way. He caught her smile and reciprocated, glad to see that he must have misread her expression. 

With eyes back on the road he considered her question. "I'd have to say so. You've got her eyes, for one thing. And fearless?" He sighed quietly. "Your mom had a way of putting up a tough front like armor, you know? Korea wasn't easy. It was a war torn country, daily casualties we tried to fix. We didn't really have time to think about being afraid. You just looked it in the eye and said 'I've got a job to do and I'll be damned if I'm going to let it take me down with it.' It's how you get through it one day at a time. But it's also about honor, and duty, patriotism. Things like that. Things that tell a person that you're not alone in a situation that could cause fear. It gives purpose, meaning, things people are willing to give their life for. And most people have something waiting for them back home. Your mom and I didn't, but we found each other there. Even if she gave me a helluva time when we crossed paths, it was something to look forward to. Someone waiting for us."

And now, this time around, he would actually have someone waiting for him back home when he hadn't before. He sent a tense, close lipped smile her way. "You're growing up to be a very smart, brave, young lady yourself, Grace. Do you know that being brave doesn't mean you are fearless? The only time someone can be brave is when they are afraid. And that's okay." He reached out to grab her hand to offer a squeeze of support. 

\-----

"Rare? No, wouldn't know as I haven't made a habit of looking for men, Penny." He winked to show he was teasing, but it wasn't the best time for jokes. Not when they were standing just by a door. "Besides, if I'm so rare, you better make an honest man out of me fast." Her hand on his scarf, he glanced down at it to grip her ring finger between his pointer and thumb. He intended to polish that ruby he'd given her and make a ring. A war zone wasn't exactly the place to be able to buy her a ring and he'd always been good with his hands to create. He had a good feeling he'd be able to weave something into a ring if he could get his hands on the supplies.

All I need is you. A simple statement, but one that meant more to him than he would realize in that singular moment. A phrase that he would hear again across time and it would have a deeper meaning because of the moment he pushed a plywood door open to reveal a giant standing beyond the frame. The magistrate was taller than Jefferson by nearly a foot. He was outfitted in clothing that stated Japanese culture. He turned to face the couple that stood hand in hand and chuckled. "We want to get married," Jefferson announced to the giant. With the book of verses weighing down his uniform's front jacket pocket over his heart, Jefferson reached for both of Priscilla's hands as he watched her eyes with each statement and vow spoken. 

When the vows were complete and they were pronounced officially married, Jefferson stepped up to his wife, ran his hand along her cheek and into her hair and whispered, "I'm going to dip you," a devious smile baring his teeth, and did so, their first kiss as husband and wife. 

-

They may be in the car, on their way to her school but hearing of mom has a way of transporting her to another realm. Like the mystical Camelot and the Lady of Shalott her mother had such faith in its existence. While Dad continues, her expression turns wistful.

The way he speaks of her is something to admire. And because it wasn't easy made her revere her mother all the more. She broke from convention and made her own way. A way that led to meeting Dad and eventually her, the creation of their family. It didn't matter if Mom wasn't able to be there in body, she never left them in spirit. Grace can see it, hear it, practically feel as though she was living the past of the less than pleasant times in Korea.

Her eyes already on him when he meets her with a smile, she matches his with one of her own. As always the gentle gesture of taking her hand, helps to remind her that despite those orders Dad has received they'll get through this. They always do. Her parents both made it home alive from Korea. They made it through losing mom. Unfortunately she could not mourn in the same way he did, he had to face all of that on his own while continuing on raising her. 

"Thanks, Dad," doing her best to bridle the emotions welling up in her chest, her eyes, and her throat crackling as she speaks. "For everything."

\-----

Priscilla scoffs at his jest, feeling his fingers against her ring. She flexes her own fingers lightly at his touch. Her eyes going to where the ring will eventually rest. If he had presented her with a simple band, she would cherish it. “That’s exactly what I intend to do,” his fingers still placed on her third finger and rotates her wrist enough to capture his hand in hers.

The small romantic gestures was still something to adjust to. It was easier to indulge in playful sometimes flirtatious banter with him, or just her usual snark. There was an ease around him. She’d always sensed it. One of the reasons when he began paying her visits for a little of this or a little of that, she didn’t tell him to get lost as she had done with so many others. There had been others she had to fend off. Though persistent, his approach was gentlemanly. His persistence paid off as they entered to be met with a giant of a man.

Suddenly she feels quite small in comparison. If she wasn’t so surprised she would joke how he was practically ten feet tall. It is quickly ignored and probably for the best. It would most likely fall flat.

To her standing opposite him, there couldn’t be a more perfect wedding. She has never wanted pomp and circumstance. With each vow spoken, she can feel her smile grow. Never one to betray her emotions without good reason, there are tears of joy welling in the corners of her eyes. And her eyes don’t leave his as he steps close one of his hands leaving hers to graze her cheek. Making good on his promise for an memorable first kiss as husband and wife, she lets out a chuckle when he dips her.

There is just one request she has of him and still in his arms, quite content to remain there, she parts from his lips. Her hand moves up to cup his jaw with a gentle caress with her thumb, “The ruby you promised me. I think it’s quite nice the way it is. It’s not perfect and that’s what makes it so beautiful.”

-

Jefferson glanced away from the road to look Grace's way. The tense feeling he'd had began to melt away. They would get through this. Plenty of families do. Theirs was a special family, he was certain of that, but they'd find a way to make it work. His smile was genuine as his eyes roamed her features noting the parts about her, the shape of her eyes so much like Priscilla's even if the coloring was different. The way she smiled even. That was Priscilla, too. It would be okay. 

\--

Priscilla's words about the ruby were met with a nod. "Anything you want." The depth of the words sank in after. She liked him the way he was. Flaws and all. Well, that was a humbling sentiment for him because he'd never thought himself perfect. Maybe the best of the imperfect in his more arrogant days in pilot training, but certainly not perfect. Especially now with the scar likely permanently ringing his neck sure to draw the eye. 

War had a way of quickly making even the youngest recruits grow up fast. Even at 20 years old, Jefferson felt much older than that now, much wiser than he'd ever been. He'd seen death come to those even younger than himself. No one was safe from that sort of fate. How could he possibly return to civilian life after what he'd seen and done? Who could possibly understand? Penny could.

And soon, he'd have to send his beautiful wife back to that war zone. "God, Penny. I wish I could take you back with me," he mumbled in her hair just as soon as they'd left the magistrate's presence. He couldn't keep his hands off of her in some form or another as they walked. Fingers brushing hers, a cupping of her cheek, an embrace, or even simply holding her hand as they walked the bustling streets of Tokyo. Nothing indecent in public of course, but she was his wife and he her husband. It should be encouraged now. 

Yet, something tickled at the back of his mind that said, _This isn't the forest anymore, but magic still always comes with a price._ And though he kept a watchful eye on their surroundings, he had to counter back to that something, _This is just a city. Nothing dangerous here aside from a speeding rickshaw or taxicab._

-

There was no doubt in Priscilla’s mind that the same thing was present on her mind. She would be remaining behind and he would be forging a new life for them when she had the chance to return home. And it would be home. A home with them that they might begin a family. After witnessing death and carnage for years, the hope of bringing new life into the world was the greatest thing she could hope for.

The last thing she wanted was the realization that once her leave was up they’d have to separate for… who knows how long again. The guilt he was experiencing, could be sensed. There was no reason he should let this plague him. Should the roles be reversed and he was the one staying, she heading back to the states, he would be relieved. Relieved as she was to know he would at least be safe. She almost lost him. Almost lost him before she got the chance to put her stubbornness aside long enough to be able to have this. A future with him. The melancholy is lingering beneath the surface of the joy as they exit the office. Hugging him close as possible as they walk. She couldn’t allow this on their wedding day.

“Please don’t think about it,” she says after a while, knowing exactly what is occupying his mind. Although all these tender gestures of his arms around her, or even just holding his hand is something she’ll deeply miss. As a reflex, she seeks out his hand and lace her fingers with his. Resting her temple to his shoulder, “We have two more days and the last thing I want to do is dwell on something neither one of us have control over.”

-

She was right, he knew. Their time together in Japan, they had no control over. What they did with it was another story. 

But once this war was over and they were together in the states, they would have anything, do anything they wanted. They would want for nothing. Nodding, Jefferson raised her hand in his and kissed her fingers. 

"There is some speculation that later in the fall, the New York Giants are going to play a game right here in Tokyo. Tokyo's team is called the Giants, too. A sister team." He grinned at this little bit of insignificance in the grand scheme of things surrounding them. War. Separation by half a world away. The future and the promise of adventures to come. 

Jefferson stopped walking on the sidewalk as he pulled a pamphlet from his coat pocket and pointed it at the structure ahead. The Tokyo Dome stood before them. "Want to watch them practice?"

\-----

Jefferson pulled the car up to Storybrooke's school. Kids ran from cars to the entrance. Others avoided waving goodbye as if their parent's cajoling embarrassed them to no end. Maybe he should have taken Grace to the bus stop, but it seemed pointless when he had to drive her anyway. 

"Grace," he started as he shifted the gear to park. The cherry red, 1953 Chrysler New Yorker was a bit of a show stopper itself, but after buying it for Penny, he couldn't find the heart to get rid of it even if it was an impractical car for Maine. 

Shifting in his seat, elbow over the back of the seat, he paused on his words, unsure if he should say it. It was a school day after all and she'd be distracted all day, he decided. "Have a good day, sweetheart. I'll take you to get ice cream after if you make good marks." He winked. Of course, she'd make good grades. She always did.

-

This is still their day and Priscilla feels relieved, shoulders easing as she feels his lips against her fingers. Maybe appeared to be a spur of the moment choice to run off to the magistrate and marry, but she couldn’t deny his parting words - a promise to propose to her - lingered in the back of her mind. He made good on his word just as she knew he would. 

“Sounds lovely,” but truly it was more just spending time with him. If she had to endure the months - godforbid years - of separation for the duration of the war, at least these days would be theirs. Memories to hold onto on the lonely nights ahead and desperately waiting for correspondence. She could rely on this to give her hope to return to Camelot with him waiting for her.

\--

Grace hopes her jittery nerves escape Dad’s notice. If dad found out that she snuck down to snoop through his mail… she slumps into her seat trying to imagine whether or not it would earn her a scolding. Or worse, it would be confirmed. They were taking the only person she has left away from her.

Her eyes were straight ahead on her peers rushing away from their parents, embarrassed to be seen with them. This irks her, maybe it is from jealousy? While they are carefree snubbing the adults who shower affection upon their children, she is forced with the fact that there is a possibility that it may not always be the case with her.

Just as she was on the verge of her emotions betraying her with the possibility of tears, Dad saying her name, she turns in her seat as he does to give him her full attention. If asked, she could certainly explain the misty eyes over the nostalgia of this morning’s stories with Mom.

Smiling wistfully Grace angles to circle her arms around his shoulders to hug him. She doesn’t reply immediately. The tension weighing on both father and daughter of what may or may not happen in the future is heavy. She hugs him a little tighter because of it, “I will, I promise,” loosening her embrace on him she sits back in her seat, but before she can let go of him or face the day ahead, she feels its necessary to add, “I love you, Dad,” it didn’t matter to her if anyone saw her in the embrace, it wasn’t the first time and she was determined it won’t be their last.

-

The moment Grace throws her arms around him, he knows everything will work out alright. He cups the back of her head with one hand and an arm around her back patting her gently. Being present in this moment, he wished it could last longer, but she pulls back after promising. He found himself a little choked up at her declaration and that he could only respond with a nod at first. His fingers had remained on her shoulder just a moment longer, not quite ready to let go, but it was time. "I love you, too, my dear Grace."

Kids are running across the school's lawn, slamming doors. Some wave. Some don't. This is normal. Grace should have a normal life with normal, mundane things to do and friends to keep her busy and distracted from what was bothering him. They had a good life set in Storybrooke, and he was glad for Priscilla as it was because of her that they had settled there.


	4. Uncanny

Jefferson had spent most of the morning in the local Recruiter’s Office being that it was the closest satellite military facility within over a hundred miles of Storybrooke. He’d argued his point that his daughter only had himself. They had no other family anywhere being that he and Priscilla had been only-children and both sets of parents long dead. No aunts, uncles, cousins. Just the two of them. How could he possibly leave his young teen alone? 

Boarding school. Seriously? He could have punched the Enson for such a suggestion. Ship her off to be among strangers in a strange town she’d never been to while he’s on the other side of the world? No.

He’d have to find someone in Storybrooke so she wouldn’t have to go to a new school and completely disrupt her life worse than it already would. 

The afternoon was spent between the Mayor’s office and the Sheriff’s department getting background checks done on any of the potential nannies and kindly elderly ladies that were suggested. He wasn’t happy about any of it. “If she was five years older, I could hire her on at the department,” Sheriff Humbert suggested. 

Jefferson merely gave his friend a flat look. “She wants to be in the medical field. She needs to go to college. But I’ll be back long before then.” Hopefully, he thought rubbing a weary hand down his face.

Graham patted Jefferson’s back with an empathetic look. “I’m fairly certain there are a number of people in town that will be more than willing to look after your dear Grace.” 

Jefferson had called her My Dear Grace so many times, others were now starting to say it, too? He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“They will. And I will, too. She’ll want for nothing. Have you asked Ruby? Or Emma even?”

“Uh… they haven’t volunteered.”

“What about the Nolans? They have a young son. She could even help them out.” Graham was full of ideas when Jefferson merely wanted to sink into a chair and melt into the cracks of the leather. “You don’t even need background checks on them. They’re saints.”

Jefferson knew he was right. “I’ll ask this afternoon. Think I’m gonna go. Grace’ll be done with school in thirty and I want to be there.”

“Call me before you ship out. We should get a drink.” Graham called towards Jefferson’s back.

“Yeah. Sure.” No, not really, he thought. He was going to spend every hour he could around Grace. Not spent in a bar drinking. 

\------

At 3:05, Jefferson pulled the car into the carpool lane in front of the school and waited for the bell to release everyone. There were two ice creams sitting in a Styrofoam cooler with their names on it.

-

The feeling of Dad’s reassuring hug remained with her throughout the day. Her thoughts distracted from her school work. Only able to focus on how she would broach the subject of what she found out. Found out without his permission. Read his personal mail. Still all she could think about was the possibility that someone will take him away from her.

Grace so deep in thoughts, possible scenarios of how she would confess to knowing just what was in that letter, as well as how Dad may react (she knew him well enough to have a good idea - even see his expressions), that she almost didn’t hear the school bell ring announcing the day was over. Sitting there a moment longer than necessary. A moment that could have been spent racing out to meet Dad.

It takes a gentle elbow to the ribs from Violet, that Grace blinks and realizes the classroom is pretty much empty.

“You okay? You’ve been pretty quiet today. Distracted even,” Violet inquires, slipping the strap of her school bag onto her shoulder.

Grace jumps into action, grabbing her books, “Yeah, just… I’ll see you later,” that didn’t help her case. Though as she shoves her books haphazardly into her bag, she adds. “I’ll tell you about it later, promise.” Then she darts for the door before she can be detained further.

Of course it was a rude way to leave her friend, but the girl was sure Violet would understand when the news got out. And it would. Now all that mattered was getting to the car. Because of her daze, her peers had piled out of the school before her and a easier path out rather than having to push through the crowd. While the rest were dispersing to either the bus stop or arguing with their parents whether or not they could go over to their friends, she spotted the car as soon as she was outside and made a beeline to it.

Trying to put on her most cheerful smile as she greeted her father, even apologizing for being a little late. Grace pulled on the door handle and took her spot in the passenger side, relieved to see him again. And there was the ice cream as promised.

-

Jefferson turned the most relaxed smile to his daughter than he's held all day. Instantly, the stress and frustration, worry and doubt melt away just at having her near again. It's as if the looming news doesn't exist at all.

Pulling the ice cream from the little cooler, Jefferson hands Grace a cup with a spoon. After inquiring over her day, he was genuinely interested, but the inquiry was also just to hear her speak. To talk about the little things that were important in life too. 

She was fifteen now. She was nearly at the age to start learning to drive. He should teach her to drive Priscilla's New Yorker. It would be Grace's one day anyway, if she was interested. But for the moment, he kept the thought to himself. 

After leaving the school and driving around town for a while, they would arrive at the hospital's parking lot. "I just need to pick up some records," he explained, nodding at the building. Keeping the explanation short for the moment, there was no need to get into a deep conversation about something routine, he figured. "Come with me?"

-

Sinking into the seat and just letting the worries of today melt away as Grace can at least feel relieved that she is back with her dad, receiving the promised ice cream in hand. Taking the opportunity to fill him in on her mundane school day - well, between bites of the scrumptious frozen treat. Then the subject changes from this and that, whatever really popped into her mind at the time as well as inquiring after what happened since he dropped her off. 

Although she doesn’t mention how distracted she was or why she was distracted. Grace had yet to find a way to bring the subject up of how I snooped through your mail and now I know there’s a chance we’ll be ripped apart. No, she stares at the empty styrofoam cup and drops the plastic spoon inside and licks the rest of the remnants off her lips and keeps procrastinates about the other thing.

She asks why they’ve suddenly made a stop at the hospital, but as soon as its out of her mouth and Dad offers her an explanation she gulps. Oh, crap. This is because of that letter. But tries not to let it show too much. She shakes off the worry, or attempts to, while she apologizes for having zoned out on him. Nodding, “Sure,” her hand already on the lever to open the door and hopping out of the vehicle. There’s no need to bring her school bag with her so she leaves it there on the floorboard of the passenger seat and closes the door behind her ready to meet him at the front of the car to walk in with him.

-

Something was going on. It was pretty clear that Grace was trying to hide something claiming she zoned out, but he knew her better than that. 

She was also rambling. Of course, it was about her day, all things he wanted to hear, but there was something else to it. He does that when he tries to hide something ~~or con someone into believing a deception~~ and to have noticed the trait in his daughter was a sure sign that something was going on. 

Jefferson merely casts a side eye to Grace after she turns to pull the door lever, but says nothing. Meeting her at the front of the car, he puts an arm around her as they walk, his hand lightly squeezing her shoulder. 

"Sweetheart," he tries. His eyes focus ahead, the bricks and multi-story building, attention half on the building, half on their steps. "Did my recounting the past this morning..." He pauses... how to put this? "Was it too much for an early morning? Talking about your mother?" He squeezes her shoulder encouragingly. 

Pulling the front door to the hospital's lobby open, he'd walk in with Grace. The reception desk is just before them. He finds he doesn't have to request anything. The same receptionist that was there earlier when he made the request is still there. She slaps a clipboard down in front of him to sign for the records with a cheerful note to say it would be ready in twenty minutes. "Feel free to use the waiting room." She points towards it.

-

With her eyes fixed ahead she does her best to just keep focused on anything but this impending separation. The ice cream feels like it's churning in her stomach. Her hand goes to subtly lay flat against her tummy as if to calm to uproar inside. 

Grace immediately looks up to her dad as he just knows the right thing to do. She want sure how parents always knew what was right what was wrong and how to put their children at ease, but his arm around her shoulders in a gentle and quite comforting squeeze is what she needs. Again she's zoned out and can't exactly justify it. He wouldn't believe that twice, so she doesn't even comment on it. The girl only leans into his side trying to remember this for the future.

“No!” she blurts out just as they walk through the entrance. Her emphatic voice drawing unwanted attention. “I mean, no,” this time in a gentler tone. She curbs her need to make herself clear as they approach the desk. Impatiently waiting for them to be directed to the waiting area.

Sparsely filled. A few chairs occupied. It isn't a challenge to find a pair of seats side by side. Grace follows her dad till he's selected a spot then she would plant herself in the seat right beside him.

“I love your stories about Mom,” she tilts her head to flash him a reassuring smile. “I could listen to them endlessly.”

-

Jefferson chuckled at Grace's enthusiasm. "Okay. I'm glad." It didn't explain her melancholy mood, but he wouldn't push it. 

The hospital's typical noises were slightly distracting and it wasn't the place to have that particular conversation anyway. After sitting for only a brief time, the receptionist called for them again. Jefferson stood to approach the desk but the receptionist shook her head.

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to go to record keeping yourself. We're short staffed and I can't step away to retrieve them for you. Go down that hall and turn left at the end. Records are the last room on the right." 

"No problem," Jefferson nodded and waved for Grace to accompany him. It had been a nice feeling to have her walking with him before so he would do so again, his hand on her back as they walk. 

The records office seemed to be down a hall of patients' rooms as it turned out. Some of the doors were opened with an easy view of the patients in beds beyond. 

A loud beeping of an alarm sounded suddenly. It was one of the patient alarms signalling someone needed attention. He looked curiously into one of the rooms and almost had an urge to enter to see if his own paramedic's knowledge could help.

Their progress was interrupted, however, as a nurse jogged out of one room to rush to that one, nearly running straight into Jefferson and Grace from behind. She grabbed hold of their shoulders with a quick squeeze as if to brace them or herself, apologized with a quick, "Sorry! You okay?" and dashed around them without pausing long enough for either to catch a glance at her face. Into the room she ran to tend to the patient. 

Jefferson cocked an eyebrow at Grace. "Sometimes, I feel like what I used to do was an entirely different life or a whole lifetime ago," he whispered. "Your mother would have been rushing around like that nurse." This was why he was needed in Vietnam. A familiar call was pulling at him, as well, and as much as he would wish to deny it, to keep his focus entirely on Grace as he had been doing her whole life, he couldn't very well turn it down.

Now, he needed to get his feet moving again towards records which was only a few doors away now, but the voice of the nurse was so busily speaking to the patient that Jefferson couldn't help but wonder if she needed help. The hospital was short staffed after all.

-

For now Grace seemed to evade the subject, but she knew it would come around again. One way or another she would have to discuss the fact that not only had she gone snooping in his personal mail but that much like her mom, she was fearing losing her only parent left. As she sat there, the both of them waiting she rests her head against his shoulder just out of habit.

About to close her eyes and concentrate on this morning. Before all of the uncertainty creeped into her life. Unfortunately that wasn’t to be, the receptionists voice calls Dad’s name and both of them are up out of their chairs and head to the desk only to be sent to the room directly. Even without Dad there, she would know the area well. Volunteering as a candy striper in hopes that it would help educate her in her path to medical school as well as help her get a feel of what it was like for her mother. She was desperate to experience the same things her mother did, anything to feel closer to the woman they had set upon a pedestal. 

In the short time Grace had been volunteering she had been able to become accustomed to the sound of the beeps, alarms, and various machines to which she was learning about. Yet today when the beeping startles her, she jumps in spot beside Dad. Heart pounding in her chest when someone rushing into the pair in a whoosh asking if they’re all right, but speeds off into the room. Catching sight, Grace opens her mouth and raises a hand to inaudibly try and call out to the woman, but Dad only remarks as she stares at the bright red hair that disappeared into the room.

“Wait,” Grace tries to say to both the woman and her Dad, but follows them both into the room only to find the woman dressed in full white uniform and cap, diligently working at the bedside to calm the patient. Whispering calming assurances that help to lower the man in bed so unsettled slowly feel at ease.

“Out!” the woman sternly orders. Grace immediately watches as the lady in white narrows her eyes at her father, then like a scolding schoolmarm points in the direction of the door. Going a further, step away from the hospital bed, white shoes clapping against the tile till she lays eyes on the girl and her attitude swiftly altered “Oh, I didn’t realize it was your day to volunteer, Miss Buchanan.”

Since Grace’s first day of volunteering there hadn’t been one day on her schedule that the two hadn’t crossed paths. She first stumbled upon the Jane Doe claiming to be a former Army nurse turned civilian by the name of Penny. While others fought the woman to return to the mental ward of the hospital, Grace was one of the few who chose to indulge the woman in this fantasy life built up in her head. Up till now there had been no reason to alert Dad to her socializing with who the staff referred to as Lt. Penny mainly because the redhead demanded it.

“It isn’t,” Grace gulps back trying to remember if she remains calm so will the woman with them. “And, please…” where the woman got it, or the uniform, was still as much of a mystery as the fiery redhead. “Penny, you know you can call me Grace. Um, where are my manners,” she tilts her head to look up to her father, then back to Penny as she makes the introduction, “Dad, this is my friend Penny. Penny, this is my Dad.”

-

Feeling drawn in and about to offer assistance in restraining the man if needed, Jefferson pulls his head back and blinks in shock that the woman, the nurse, has demanded at him specifically to get out. So startled was he that he didn't move, but rather stood there beside Grace. For one thing, Jefferson knew he didn't work there, but the nurse had little right to order him out. He'd merely gone in to offer assistance, but maybe it is his own pride thinking he could go where he pleased in the hospital. His eyes flick immediately from hers as she round upon him and Grace, to her name tag and reads the name stamped in: PENNY. His eyes widen in shock at the name then snap back up to the woman. Red hair. Authoritative. Demanding. And a soft side for Grace?

But the nurse speaking the name Miss Buchanan, directed at Grace, draws his confused attention to his daughter who is keeping up with the conversation much better than he himself. And friend, Grace says? 

Jefferson narrows an eye at Grace, then looks back to the nurse in question. Not once had Grace mentioned a Nurse Penny. A name so similar to her own mother's and with red hair to boot! Why hadn't she said anything? Or had he been too wrapped up in his own worries to notice his daughter had made a friend of a woman near enough to her own father's age? 

His prior concern, or alarm, or whatever had been racing through his brain a moment before was diminishing. He'd only been startled and drawn out of his element for a moment. Too much is going on what with the orders to deploy and his worry over Grace, and he'd let his mind get away from him. Shaking his head, the concern and similarities he'd noticed shake away as well. 

After Grace made her introduction, he smiles easily and puts an arm around his daughter's shoulders. "My name is Jefferson," he offers in introduction. "Pardon me for intruding, Nurse Penny. I was going to offer assistance with the patient," he nods towards the man in the bed who seems to have calmed down for now. "I'm a Marine combat medic, and he seemed a little combative, but it appears as if you've handled him yourself. It's nice to meet a friend of my dear Grace." His eyes stay on the face of the nurse looking for some trace of what had bothered him a moment before. And why does he feel as if he'd met her before, but he knows he had not. 

-

Grace observes the introduction between her father and her friend, both adults seem - defensive maybe? - on alert around her. Of course her father would be the kind to offer any assistance to a person in need. What Dad didn't know is Penny was quite similar to him in that respect. Whether Penny was wanted in her aid to the patients, Penny always found an avenue to get her way. For now the teenager leaves him in the dark about the woman's mental state. One has to tiptoe around Nurse Penny lest she begin to become flustered and restrained.

Thankful Penny only softens her demeanor as she laces her fingers in front of her, nodding. The redheads eyes go to Grace's and what tough exterior melts. “I see,” the woman tilts her head as she tries to assess the man better. Or better yet, lets her brown eyes shamelessly drift over him beginning with the chiseled features and crystal clear blue eyes, sharp and classy way he was dressed (although who wore ascots these days?), and all together approving of what she sees.

Penny dares to take a step forward to Jefferson unabashed with her endeavors, “Perhaps I was hasty to shun your assistance, Jefferson,” Penny winks at the man slyly. “I like being in charge,” she shrugs a shoulder as she manages a flirtatious smirk. “And your wife doesn’t mind you offering your assistance?”

-

Jefferson had been too far removed from the business of flirting to recognize at first what Nurse Penny was doing. He noticed the way she seemed to be sizing him up, her eyes wandering, but he was in her territory and he had just introduced himself. It was when she stepped closer and winked stating she liked being in charge, that he realized. Was there a sexual undertone to that statement? His eyebrows nearly shot to his hairline. "My... my wife? What does she have to do with this?" His hand tightened on Grace's shoulder in reflex without realizing. 

So taken off guard was he that he had no idea how to answer. He certainly didn't want to tell this woman that his wife had been lost to them (not being able to form the word 'died' in his mind) for over a decade. And besides, she was so very close and in his face. But stepping back for some breathing space didn't occur to him. 

But if he caught her meaning, did she mean... She did! She was flirting with him right in front of Grace! Again, his eyes widened when he realized Grace was standing right there observing the bold nurse's behavior and his own stammered question. His ears were burning pink as he shot a side glance to Grace hoping she hadn't caught any underlying meaning there. He'd be mortified if she did!

-

Grace takes in the show unfolding around her. Penny shamelessly and harmlessly (at least in Grace’s opinion) flirting with her dad. Dad flustered and stammering at just the act of someone paying him a little attention. One had to know Penny to realize that she had very few boundaries and loved to cross any and every one that someone told her not to. Some of that could be attributed to her condition, one Dad knew nothing about. This was not the time or place. Even mentioning it would bring unnecessary grief to the woman. 

If this weren’t such a surprise to Grace - seeing Penny attracted to someone and of all people it was her own dad - she would find this far less amusing. Just as no one had ever boldly approached Dad with such blatant advances, Grace had never once experienced this side of the woman. A woman no doubt quite lonely and truly a dear person. The staff would disagree the way she barked out orders, but with Grace, there was a different kind of Penny. Apparently with Dad, she had no issue showing the softer side of the who Penny was.

Grace stifling a laugh, but unable to hide the smirk that betrays her. “Actually,” the girl begins keeping her voice calm as well as her demeanor. Her hand reaching up to pat where her father’s lay, “...My mom had been a nurse before she passed. And she wouldn’t have asked to help, she just would have jumped right in.”

Penny’s mouth forms an O as she nods, once again taking a small step closer resuming her sly smirk, “A woman after my own heart. Might I say, you have good taste, Jefferson.”

-

Well. Apparently Jefferson had been too gentlemanly... or whatever by asking and not plowing through the chaos to help subdue the wild patient. But it hadn't been necessary because Nurse Penny had been able to handle the situation. He could only imagine the indignant look he might have gotten had the impression been assumed that he'd thought her incapable of handling the situation herself, her not knowing who he was or what he was capable of. Maybe he'd just spent too many years out of practice. 

But with the way the nurse had taken another step closer, Jefferson pulled his head back, but kept his eyes - widened further than before now - on hers. He had a feeling he had to watch out around her. He knew that type. Certainly she was after Penny's... Priscilla's! own heart. "Uh, yes I do," he replied distractedly as his eyes flicked down to her mouth smirking the way it was. _Yes I do?_ Jefferson mentally chastised himself. _Now you're telling her she's attractive. Well of course she is. Look at her hair. The exact same shade... and the eyes. And the attitude. She'll walk all over you. Nurses!_

His expressions kept changing between bewilderment, loss of coherent thought, and the need to say something even remotely witty back lest both Grace and this nurse friend of his daughter's start cackling at him. He knew he was making a fool of himself. It was just that she had an uncanny resemblance in mannerisms and appearance to Penny. To Priscilla! Even the name was making him seem inept. 

He blinked, quietly cleared his throat, and looked away from the nurse with her inquisitive eyes and daring closeness to look back at Grace to note that she was in fact enjoying this. Oh, he knew that particular gleam in her eyes, too! He narrowed his eyes in a glance that meant, I'm on to you, before squeezing her arm again and looking straight into the nurse's eye with his own grin. "Grace is absolutely right. Please excuse my prior rudeness. I won't hesitate in future. We won't hesitate." He nudged Grace. She was a candy-striper after all and turning the attention away from himself seemed necessary though how that was going to be accomplished with how close the woman was standing, he didn't know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Can you guess where this fic is heading?_
> 
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> _Since this is a work in progress based on a role play, this is as far as this work has gone **so far!** But we are still working on it, so please Bookmark/Subscribe for updates. _


	5. Doughnuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Graham tells Emma about Jefferson's predicament. Some Gremma here much to Regina's disdain._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Since this is a role-play works between two authors, you will see two more 'comments' between Nurse Penny, Grace, and Jefferson. Then, we switch gears to see what Graham and Emma have been up to since Jefferson had spoken to Graham earlier in the day._

_This man is quite the jittery sort for someone so handsome,_ Penny thinks watching the inner conflict inside Jefferson. All because little ol’ her decided to take a step forward instead of one backward. She must’ve gone and pushed this man’s buttons to the point he’s a flustered mess or so she perceived. On the outward appearance Jefferson looked to be someone who had everything in order. The devotion to his daughter was beautiful. What was he doing for himself? 

But this man… his life needed a good shaking up. And in a few seconds of watching his eyes widen in shock, Penny decided this task was right up her alley. If you want the job done right, do it yourself. 

Well, because his everchanging expressions and demeanor was too much not to instigate a little. His eyes as brief as it was flit down to her lips in a subconscious move, perhaps? It was done nonetheless. He was quite the mystery and one she wanted to figure out. He was more than who he allowed people to see. Something they had in common. The temptation was too strong to resist. 

Penny softens her innocent features and doe eyes from the mischievous disposition, “So hasty to leave? I thought the fun was just beginning…” the woman pauses mid-thought to hear the girl snort out a laugh unintentionally.

Grace tilts her head up as she “Uhm,” she gulps back another laugh ready to burst out. “Sorry.” Penny’s brows twitched while the girl’s lips apologized, but there was nothing backing up those words behind Miss Buchanan’s amusement. “Uh, yeah, ditto,” casually to throw off suspicion Grace gestures to her dad. “We’ll definitely be back, Nurse Penny. And maybe Dad,” the young girl using all her persuasive abilities looks to her father with a hopeful look and just a faint pout, “Could volunteer with me?”

-

Oh. Jefferson certainly figured out what Grace was doing. She effectively put the ball back in his court, didn't she? Fighting a smile, his lips twitched as he watched Grace for a moment without answering her question. 

And what fun did Nurse Penny mean? It seemed as if this was Poke Fun of Jefferson Day what with the both of them on the verge of laughter. He saw it in both of their expressions and especially in the way the nurse's eyes were practically sparkling at him.

He sighed, because was it really that obvious he no longer had the ability to keep up with a fast talker but two of them? They were both plying him with soft looks and he knew better. From Grace and from this Nurse even if he didn't know her. He knew her type, he was certain, and that was enough to know she wasn't about to give up with whatever she was up to. 

Or maybe he was just caught off his usual reserve around nurses? No, that was certainly not true. Storybrooke Hospital's own Nurse Rachet was easily subjected to Jefferson's own smooth talking when Grace needed to be seen at the age of 3 on Christmas weekend when she contracted Scarlet Fever and the Emergency Room had been flooded with 'more serious cases.' Having just lost Priscilla the year before, he was terrified that he could potentially lose his daughter, the only person in the world he had left, and no pushy nurse or filled-to-capacity ER was going to stop her from being seen immediately.

Jefferson was about to answer Grace's question when he recalled that he only had mere days left in town before the war would require his time. His eyebrows furrowed at the thought as he studied Grace's face, a more serious look on his face, but it softened just a moment later. "Of course, Sweetheart. But right now, today is probably the best day for it." He lightly tapped Grace's nose, because at times he still saw the little kid she used to be when she tried to persuade him to give her just one more piece of candy, and shrugged with an easier grin on his face and a rise of one eyebrow towards Nurse Penny in challenge. "So, what'll you have us do today, Boss? What kind of... fun can we get into?" 

 

-

 

The phone call came through just as Graham was strolling into the station with a box of doughnuts in hand. It rang twice, but Emma didn’t pick up. Her eyes widened at the sight of the box in the Sheriff’s hands, and she sat up quickly from her leaned back, relaxed posture. The pencil she had been chewing on was thrown upon the desk in reckless disregard. “Oh my god. That’s just what I needed this morning. The phone’s been ringing non-stop.” 

She reached out for the box, but Graham pulled his arm back with a teasing grin. “Are you telling me, Miss Swan, that you’re neglecting your duties for food?” The phone had gone silent for the count of ten before it started ringing again. “You’d better answer that. Could be important.”

“Yeah? So is old Mrs Cobbler’s complaint that one of the neighborhood kids egged her house last night, when we all know it’s one of her own. She must have ten kids or something. Or maybe it’s Madam Mayor complaining that you’re ignoring her calls.” Emma inclined her chin at him over that. “So, are you?”

Graham’s teasing expression dropped in an instant as did his arm holding the box of doughnuts. “I’m not ignoring her calls,” he said defensively, but without any luster. 

“You’re going to have to tell her eventually, Graham.” Emma raised an eyebrow at him, as he cleared his throat.

“That’s inappropriate conversation, Miss Swan. We’re still on duty.” He leaned over the desk, setting the prized box of doughnuts down before his grin showed up again to plant a light kiss at the corner of Emma’s mouth but she turned her face ever so slightly so that it ended up directly on her lips. 

“I’ve never been much for propriety anyway,” she said as he stood upright again. The box was flipped open to reveal half a dozen glazed doughnuts with a bearclaw perched on top. “Ohh, you care. You really care.” She grinned cheekily up at him as she leaned back in her chair again, her eyes rolling back in delight as she bit into the doughnut.

Graham grinned as he shook his head. The phone started ringing again, the third time now since he’d entered the station. Sighing, he lifted the receiver from the cradle in order to leave Emma to her prize. “Sheriff’s Station.”

 

After the call - and Emma had been right. It was Old Mrs Cobbler complaining about the neighborhood kids - Graham pulled a spare chair to the office’s sole desk. He was eyeing Emma a bit more closely than she would have cared for.

“What?” she asked warily, finally lowering the quarter of bearclaw remaining to eye Graham with growing concern. Graham had a strange expression on his face and though Emma liked to think it was about something fun for them to do later, it was obviously something sparked by that conversation. “Graham? Spit it out.”

He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders before speaking. “I saw Jefferson earlier today. He’s been activated. For Vietnam. They finally told him he couldn’t put it off any longer.”

“Shit,” Emma winced. “Grace?”

Graham bit his lip as he nodded. “I’ve been running background checks on a few people for him. For people he might consider asking to look after Grace for him.” Sighing deeply, he rubbed his hands through his hair and settled with lacing his fingers behind his head. 

“Aside from Jones, I don’t know anyone else who’s gone. Is Jefferson Navy, too?” Emma asked. The bearclaw seemed forgotten as she idly pulled little pieces of the flaky icing off to pile upon her lap.

“No, Jefferson’s a Marine,” Graham said quietly. “Jones left last year, but he didn’t have any children to worry about. And Jefferson’s… different. He lost his wife, you know? She was Army. This is hitting close to home. He needs someone to keep Grace.”

Emma nodded quietly, thinking. “Any leads?”

“Well, I suggested the Nolans. I even called Mrs. Nolan to gather her opinion on the matter. And...” Graham’s cheeks actually pinkened over his beard. Emma sat straight up goggling at him before Graham would continue. “I regret asking. She insisted that she would help, but I think she’d likely smother the girl. She’s too eager.” 

Emma winced in understanding. “She’s my friend and all, but she can be a little much when she gets excited. But they have the baby. Grace could help.”

Graham’s cheeks pinkened further and Emma’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And I suggested… you to Jefferson.”

“Me!?” Emma sat bolt upright in her chair, the remaining bearclaw crushed in her hand. “But why?”

Graham barely batted an eye at the fate of the bearclaw as he held Emma’s ire. “Because you have a kid the same age as her. They’re friends. And Henry’s lost a parent, too. They would understand each other.”

“But Graham, Henry only lives with me half the time. And I’m only home half the time. The other half, I’m at your place! That’s not going to work! And… and I’m not even good with kids!” 

Graham only smirked before it broke into a grin. “You’re a mighty fine mother. Grace is in need and I could help you.”

Emma’s mouth shut abruptly. “Our cohabitation has to remain a secret. You could lose your job. I would definitely lose mine. I’m trying to move out of Granny’s B&B, you know.”

“No. I wouldn’t. I was elected into this position. I’m in charge of my employees. Not the Mayor. She can’t fire either of us.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said before dropping her squashed bearclaw into the trash to reach for a fresh glazed doughnut as replacement.

Graham leaned forward over his bent knees as he eyed Emma more seriously. He was determined to break through to her, especially when it came to people in need, it seemed. “Why did you come to Storybrooke?”

The wary look shone in Emma’s eyes again. The firm set to her mouth might have indicated that she wasn’t going to answer, but she did. “You know why. Henry.”

“And you stayed for him.”

“Yeah because… Regina’s… well, you know.” She shrugged, but kept eye contact with Graham as he nodded. 

“I do know. But you wouldn’t have stayed if you weren’t needed. If you felt that the people here needed you. But you needed… us… too. A place to belong.” His tone sounded as if the subject was painful to him to speak aloud, but he wasn’t afraid to do so.

“Hey!” Emma yelled throwing the uneaten doughnut upon the desktop as she stood, glaring down at Graham. “You have no right to use my past against me! No right!”

Sighing, Graham stood to face Emma’s ire head on. “You’re the best person to know what it feels like to be left behind. Grace needs someone that understands that.”

If Graham had been a lesser man, he might have backed away from the look of fire brewing behind Emma’s pupils as she glared at him, but he stood his ground and kept eye contact. “I understand it as well.” _Being abandoned,_ he didn’t add.

He may as well have said it aloud; Emma could read him that easily. She took a long suffering breath in and let it out loudly crossing her arms over her chest.

Graham persisted as he reached for Emma’s bare forearm. “Maybe talk to Jefferson and Grace before making a decision either way? Think about it?” 

“You’re really annoying when you get pushy, Graham.”

Graham fought to conceal a grin, but failed. 

 

Ten minutes later, the doors to the station burst inwards and slammed into the walls of the hallway to admit Madam Mayor herself in all her fiery rage. Emma looked up from a report and Graham settled the phone into the cradle. 

Regina stormed in as if she owned the place, Emma noted, and cast a speculative eye on her, not bothering to stand as the mayor stopped right in front of the desk glaring at both of them. “May we help you, Madam-” Graham started.

“Cut the act, Sheriff,” Regina nearly spat. “I’ve had three calls this afternoon, complaints, rather, that no one is answering the phones here. If I find out you’ve been shirking on your duties, Miss Swan, I’ll have you fired so fast, your head will spin. I can easily replace you.”

Emma wasn’t too concerned and leaned back with an eyebrow raised. “How nice of you to drop in, Regina,” Emma said dryly omitting the title completely. “How may we help you?”

This caused Regina’s posture to turn even more severe, if that was even possible, and she rounded on Graham. “Do your job, Sheriff! Keep your employee under control. I’m certain Henry would hate to find out you’ve lost employment due to laziness and can’t afford to stay in town any longer. You do still have your apartment in Boston?”

“How do you know I have an apartment there? Been spying on me?” Emma was mostly unperturbed by this, but she couldn’t let Regina think she didn’t notice.

Regina smirked, the corner of her perfectly applied lipstick tilting up on one side. “I know quite a lot about you, Miss Swan. Many things Henry would be appalled to find out.”

Emma glared back. She hadn’t wanted to be a mother. She really shouldn’t care what the kid thought of her, but she found that she really did care. Henry had those sweet, hopeful eyes that made Emma feel like she meant the whole world to him. 

Or maybe she should tell Henry herself about her past before Regina could do it and ruin everything. 

“Is there a particular reason for your visit, Mayor Mills?” Graham asked after noticing the building tension. “A specific call that must be addressed?”

Regina whipped her head to glare up at Graham. “No,” she said cooly. “I took care of it myself.”

“Probably because it wasn’t anything,” Emma muttered under her breath.

Regardless, Regina heard. Placing a hand flat on the desk, she bent to be more at Emma’s eye level. “Do you think I don’t see what’s going on around here? Stay. Away. From. Him. And stay away from _my son._ You’re a disgrace to this office.” Her hand swept to the side pushing the half emptied box of doughnuts directly into the waste bin which echoed as soon as the box struck the metal can. Straightening her back, she glared up at Graham again. “Get back to work.”

Regina stormed back out of the station just as dramatically as she had entered. The doors, which had remained opened while Regina was in the station, were evidently swept up in the winds of her departure and closed behind her as if they had been waiting for her. 

Emma snorted. “What an evil bitch.”

Graham’s lips pursed. His prior humor gone as he watched the doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thank you for being patient while we write this. Life has been pretty busy lately, so it's coming along slowly, but we hope to provide more about Penny, Grace, and Jefferson soon. We have quite a story to tell here and it's only going to get more exciting. Especially with what is going to happen very soon..._
> 
> _Please subscribe for updates! We'd appreciate the kudos love and a comment to let us know what you thought!_


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